Past Tense
by Skull Bearer
Summary: What happens when you change someone’s past? How does that change what they believe, how they behave? Does it change who they are? What if Magneto wasn't the only one trapped in Auschwitz? AU, XavierMagneto slash, disturbing content.
1. Prologue

_This is the X-men fic I wrote for NaNoWriMo. It is 50,000 words and will be posted by chapter. It is an AU and is something of a mixture of comic and movieverse, but is set early enough that it isn't really an issue. I don't own Charles or Erik or the concept of mutants, but the ownership of everything else is debatable._

**Some of Charles' most haunting nightmares had been ones in which he, too, had been in the concentration camps. He was still chased by a persistent doubt -- if he had lived through what Erik had, would he still be certain his way was the right one? Would he have even been able to survive the camps? Would he have wanted to?- Evolution by Renata.**

**Past Tense**

Prologue

The transport was not recorded, officialised or even announced before it had already departed. Had it arrived as it should, this story would not be being written. But it never did arrive.

It was dark, and so foul that it seemed that the darkness itself was tainted, as though it were a filthy cloth thrown over the scene to hide it from prying eyes. Even the faint light, filtering through the barbed wire slots above the doors seemed somehow dirty, the slivers of cloud covered sky a dim, grimy grey.

The British soldiers that stopped the train didn't know what it was, when they built the blockade across the rail tracks. If they did, they might have been less eager to obey orders. But they didn't know.

The sounds were muffled by the dark and the filth, no more than murmurs from voices which had, days ago, shouted themselves hoarse. No one shouted any more, no one spoke, even if they could have made themselves heard above the clattering din of the train.

They thought the train was carrying supplies, troops, or even prisoners of war. But why would supplies be carried in these ancient cattle wagons? And who would be inhumane enough to transport people in such a manner? Even prisoners of war were protected by the Geneva convention.

But that didn't include civilians.

It was hot, and the stale, vile air was hard to breathe. It had been unbearable at first, when they had been packed in until there was barely any room to move, let alone sit. But it was easier now, with so few lungs still taking in the air.

The train hit the blockade with a jarring screech that set all teeth on edge, the locomotive crashed into the barrier head-on and overturned, dragging the first two wagons over with it. The others slammed into each other with such force the many of the boards splintered, and the screams of tearing metal and crushed wood covered the very human screams that sounded at the same time.

The stop was so sudden and violent that there was no warning, and no one could see what was happening when they were all thrown across the wagon with such force that he saw stars when he hit the far wall. The most light he had seen in days.

The soldiers closed on the transport carefully, cocking their guns in case the remaining wagons should open and disgorge hundreds of German soldiers. But as they closed on the collapsed locomotive, the only enemies they found were a half-dozen of Nazi SS, most of them knocked unconscious from the crash.

The darkness returned, deeper than ever. The silence that had fallen was broken only by rising groans and the ringing inside his own head. Blind and shaking from the fear rising slowly up his spine, he groped around the floor slick with blood and filth and the bodies of those who hadn't survived this as he had.

Leaving eight men to guard the SS and try to extract information from the bare few who still clung to consciousness, the rest of the platoon left to examine the rest of the train. Few of the men understood German, and the ones who did had rudimentary knowledge at best, so what they learnt from the reluctant guards was confused and contradictory, and it was all moot anyway once their comrades opened the wagon doors.

His hand touched a familiar wrist. He couldn't see who it belonged to, but after three years together he just knew. The skin was warm, too warm but at least it indicated life. He pulled the body up against his chest, and his lips dragged into a smile when he felt the fingers twitch against his chest, the body shaking heavily as coughs shook the thin frame. The short stubble scratched against his throat as he rested the head on his chest.

It was like opening a door into a charnel house, and the smell hit them even before their eyes could adapt to the gloom. Several reeled, and were spared the sight their stronger stomached colleagues had to endure. They thought them mannequins at first, or perhaps gruesomely realistic waxworks. People so filthy they would seemed to be part of the wagon if it wasn't for their eyes, gleaming as they reflected the light, but with so little of their own.

Some way ahead came the scraping bang of a door opening. His arms tightened instinctively around his friend's chest, feeling the bones dig into his arms through the tatty fabric of his shirt, the reverberations as his friend groaned, turning his face away.

His voice was as dry and rusty as corroded metal, his lips cracked and bleeding from dehydration. "Erik."

They had heard of the Nazi death camps of course. Heard, but not quite believed. All right, Hitler was a lunatic, but this was Europe, not some backwater little country when they prayed to trees and thought the earth was flat. And people from Europe just didn't **do** things like that.

They were wrong.

No answer, although he thought his friend stirred a little at the sound of his name. Whatever was happening, he had to wake up. If they had arrived, the SS would kill any unable to walk, and if not, then they _had_ to walk, if only to escape. "Erik, wake up." His voice cracked, the sense of helplessness was crushing, and if he'd had the tears to cry, he would have.

It took an immense force of will to step into the reeking, stinking wagon, and even more not to run out immediately. Of the dozens, if not hundreds, of people packed in there, only about a tenth were still alive. There was a small boy lying in the corner of the wagon, his eyes chewed out by rats. Right next to him was a woman, thin as a skeleton, who stared at the soldiers with uncomprehending eyes and tried to touch their uniforms as if to reassure herself that they were real.

He should be desperate, he should be shaking Erik and screaming at him to get up, as he had when they had first been taken to this train. He should be forcing him to his feet and preparing to run the moment the doors were opened. But what was the point? Erik had been too sick to move to begin with, and now… He felt too numb and tired to do anything. Just to sit and stare blindly at the doors, wondering what new nightmare would spring out at them when they were opened. The memories of the chaos when the doors had been opened before, the guns and the shouts and dogs…

The sergeant regained control of his horrified platoon, ordering one group to empty the train of anyone still alive, a second to remove the dead, and dispatching a runner to find the lieutenant- who had stayed with the bulk of the army- and tell him to come back with medics. For a moment the sergeant paused- his men thought he was watching them work, checking that his orders were carried out, but in truth, he didn't even see them. Finally, he turned stiffly away and walked back to the division he had left interrogating the SS guards.

Numb or not, the tension was strung so tightly through him that he almost passed out when the first shot was fired. Even Erik jumped, and in the dim light he could see his friend's eyes open, dilated and glazed in delirium. Another shot. Then another. And another. Then two in quick succession.

The soldiers stared in horror at their sergeant, unsure what to do. The sergeant ignored the bodies at his feet and the blood sprayed across his jacket, and coldly ordered the soldiers to rejoin the rest of the platoon. The men all but ran back to their unit.

By then he was shaking uncontrollably. What that it then? Had they arrived after all and the killing had already started? Again he shook his friend, but he didn't respond; eyes closing as he lost consciousness once again.

He tried to stand, to pull them both upright, but his legs refused to bear even his own weight, let alone another's. Again, he felt his eyes burn where tears refused to come, a sob building in his throat, drawn up by sheer despair.

The wagon door were wrenched back one by one, revealing the starving, stinking mass of humanity inside. Few of the survivors seemed to be able to comprehend that they were safe, some actually fighting the soldiers sent in to save them. None appeared to be able to speak English and only a handful seemed to understand it, and before long it was everything the soldiers could do to retain some sense of cohesion.

The shouts were faint, but getting closer, and he could feel his heart beating faster as they did so, his exhausted body trying vainly to stir itself into action. He closed his eyes as he heard the hands outside start to work opening the doors, his head bowing over Erik's. They would shoot him too. Even if he could walk, he couldn't leave his friend.

The door groaned as the rusty lock finally snapped, shooting back on its ancient runners. It was the third wagon that group of soldiers had opened, but its contents still made them shudder and want to be sick. This one had been closer to the locomotive when it overturned, and the bodies were heaped up against the right hand wall, a jumbled mass of arms and legs and heads, some still twitching.

He couldn't see. The light was too bright. He remembered how once- in a time so distant it felt like a previous life- he had found his stepbrother killing ants, they were been being burnt under a magnifying glass and he now knew how the insects must have felt. He raised an arm to cover his face, and Erik moaned against his chest, turning his face away from the glare.

It took a while for their eyes to adapt to the gloom, and pick out the few poor souls who had retained the strength to pull themselves free of the pile. The soldiers didn't envy those who were trying to pull the survivors out from the wagons which had actually overturned.

He blinked, squinting through the light that sent a thousand needles pricking his brain. His hands trembled and his breath caught as he saw the soldiers. He closed his eyes, hands tightening on his friend, bracing for the inevitable moment when the killing shot was fired.

The soldiers stepped in, grimacing at the human filth and blood that carpeted the floor. There were only a handful of survivors this far forward in the train; an old man who sat in the corner, his lips moving noiselessly in what might be prayer, a young woman who lay a little way from the pile, staring blankly at her bleeding hands, and a third, of indiscriminate age or gender, who sat with their back to the far wall, cradling a dead body in their arms.

The shot never came. Instead he felt hands on his, callused but gentle, trying to pry Erik from his death-grip. "No!" The shout was louder than he meant it, louder than he thought himself capable of, and his head snapped up to meet the astonished gaze of a British soldier.

The boy's voice - and he was now sure it was a boy- had been a low croak, but recognisably English, and the soldier was torn between relief at finding someone in this hell who could speak his language, and rage that this should happen to a fellow countryman. As for the body he held, they were undeniably alive, although still unconscious.

He stared at the soldier, unable to take in what he was seeing. His eyes traced over the man's stubbled, sharp chinned face, to his uniform- looking almost absurdly clean in the squalid wagon- to his insignia of the British 21st Army Group. Somewhere in the back of his mind, something was telling him that it was finally over, that they were finally safe, that the rescue he had prayed for even after he had renounced God had arrived. But the part of him that knew this seemed to be having some problem communicating it to the rest of his brain.

The soldier smiled at the boy, which seemed to have the opposite effect he intended. Instead of reassuring the boy, it only seemed to frighten him more, and he rammed up against the wall, still clutching at his companion. "It's okay." He whispered, keeping his voice low and steady, "I'm not going to hurt you."

It had been so long since he heard English that he didn't at first understand what was being said. No one had spoken English in the camps, unless it was as part of their own bastardised slang. It stunned him to the point that he didn't react at once when the man pulled Erik away from him.

The boy cried out again as the soldier pulled the body away from him. It was another young man, about the same age as the first, although it was hard to tell. Both were shaven bald and dressed in rags, and both were horrifically thin. Their eyes seemed too large for their faces, and the boy in his arms couldn't have weighed more than seventy pounds. As he lifted him, the boy groaned, one bony hand rising to pluck blindly at the air.

"I'm just taking him outside," The soldier's voice was soothing, but he was in no state to be calmed. With a supreme effort he rose to his feet and stumbled after him, legs trembling with every step. "We've got medics on the way," the soldier continued, "And they'll be able to take a look at your friend."

"Brother." He had repeated the lie for so long it was almost instinctively, Erik was far closer to him than his brother ever had been, but if they pretended to be related they were less likely to be separated.

"Brother." The soldier amended. The English boy was standing, but looked liable to fall over any minute. He was older than the soldier had first thought- more a young man really- and probably taller than the soldier was. It was hard to tell how thin he was through his ragged, over-large clothes, but the arms that protruded from the sleeves of his torn jacket could have come from a skeleton.

He staggered after the soldier. He had no idea where they were going, but he wasn't leaving Erik alone. The fresh air was dizzying after so long in the closed wagon -how long had they been in there? Two days? Three?- and his legs buckled as he reached the door. A hand came out and closed on his upper arm, steadying him. Another soldier. He was too bewildered to pull away from the sudden contact, even assuming he could break the man's hold on his arm, which the hand completely surrounded.

The English boy let himself be helped down from the wagon, but his legs folded up underneath him the moment his feet touched the ground. The soldier signalled at his colleague to carry him as well. The boy didn't appear to like that, and struggled wildly against the man's grip, one hand reaching out to his brother.

"Calm down," the soldier carrying him said softly, "We're just taking you and your brother to the medic. It's going to be alright."

"Erik-" He cursed a voice to weak to cry out, a body too weak to fight or even walk, and a mind which had unable to think of a way to save his friend himself. All he'd been able to for all these weeks was watch helplessly as Erik had grown steadily worse. He prayed, to a god he didn't believe was even listening, that the soldiers were right.

The medic was feeling very ill indeed. He was a well trained field operative, and he had worked on many gruesome cases, but this one turned his stomach. He smiled thinly, everyone gets one. At least that was what he'd been told as a trainee. Everyone gets a really bad case sooner or later, one they'll remember for the rest of their lives. He just hadn't expected it to be quite this horrific. He was very glad he'd brought his cigarettes to steady his jangling nerves.

He twisted again in the soldier's arms, it was irrational, even he knew that. He could see Erik, but three years of fear had made him paranoid if his friend wasn't constantly within arm's reach. The soldier holding him growled, and tightened his grip. He thought his ribs might crack under the pressure.

The medic was sitting on the step of the small Red Cross ambulance when he saw the two soldiers approach. He was one of ten who had been sent when the lieutenant had heard of the transport, and he was taking a short -but in his mind very much needed- break. It had only been after his third cigarette that his hands had stopped shaking. Now, seeing the soldiers approach, he stubbed it out with a regretful sigh and got to his feet.

"Get them inside," The man sighed, indicating the ambulance. The first soldier carried Erik inside and set him down on a wooden bench.

Seeing his friend like that, pale and still and barely breathing, just made him struggle harder to reach him. At last, the soldier let him down inside the ambulance.

The medic looked over the two young men. One was clearly very ill, and judging by the symptoms he could see and what he'd seen of the conditions inside the train, it was probably typhus, and pretty advanced at that. The other boy didn't look much better, although he was conscious and making an effort to stand up. Both boys were in the latter stages of starvation and covered in cuts and sores. The question was no so much what to do but where to start. With a third sigh- one he immediately regretted- God, when had these people last had a wash?- he dug out a syringe.

The panic that had threatened to overwhelm him stopped the moment his hand touched Erik's. His fingers curled around his friend's, squeezing gently. It was a mark of how badly off Erik was that he didn't receive a response. Even on the train he would have felt an answering squeeze, the eyes opening a little or the mouth twitching in a grim but reassuring smile. Now, it was like holding the hand of a corpse. The comparison twisted his stomach and his hands started to shake until he almost dropped the cold fingers.

The medic lay the prepared syringe aside, and looked at the conscious boy. He desperately needed a bath and some proper food, and- judging by how cracked his lips were- probably water too. He picked up an empty jar which had once been used to hold bandages, and filled it at the water tank before handing it to the young man.

It was only when he saw the glass that he remembered how thirsty he was. He'd been able to steal a half-full flask before they'd been thrown on the train, but that had quickly been consumed and Erik had needed it more than he had. And Erik needed it more than he did now, he realised regretfully.

"What are you doing?" The medic frowned. The boy had taken the glass, dipped his filthy fingers in it, and was tracing his friend's lips, trying to get him to drink it. "I assure you, your friend needs it less than you do."

"Brother," He corrected quickly, the words scraping his dry throat. He looked longingly at the water. A thin strand of dirt revolved in the jar from where he'd put his fingers, looking like a sketch he'd once seen of a whirlwind. Even dirtied from his fingers, the water was cleaner and purer than any he'd seen for longer than he cared to remember.

"Besides," The medic continued, picking up the syringe again," We've got plenty here-" he nodded at the water tank- "it's not likely we're going to run out."

He gave in, and downed the glass in a gulp. He didn't even taste it, and the pain as the liquid touched his cracked lips was agonising. He hadn't eaten for longer than he hadn't drunk, and was very nearly sick when the water hit his empty stomach. But the liquid was like a breath of life to his parched body, and he felt his head clear a little, his eyes stinging as tears formed for the first time in days.

The medic picked up the unconscious boy's arm, wincing. The skin was grimy and studded with sores, and he was sure he could see lice crawling in his ragged clothes. It took a long time to trace out a vein in the skeletal arm, so he continued to talk. "What's his name?"

"Erik Lehnsherr." He said, then paused, they'd always pretended to be brothers, but they were safe now, should he stop the pretence? No. There was no guarantee that the soldiers wouldn't separate them even now. It might have been better to have given Erik his surname, but he couldn't exactly backtrack and say that no, actually his name is Erik Xavier, could he?

The medic nodded, sliding the needle into the boy's arm, noting with satisfaction that he flinched. If the boy could still feel pain at this stage he would most likely pull through. He pressed down on the plunger. "And what's your name?" He asked idly.

"Charles..." He paused, then gave a brittle smile, "Charles Lehnsherr."


	2. Chapter one

**Part One**

Chapter 1

The dogs were howling.

They were huge dogs, almost wolves in the eyes of a terrified boy. Black as coal, with eyes that reflected red in the half-light, and jaws that shone red from the blood on their fangs. His mother's blood. Her husband's blood. His son's blood.

His blood.

The dogs left the carcasses they had been gnawing, the bodies that had once been living, breathing people. People he knew. People he'd grown up with. His family. The dogs circled, followed by their human counterparts. The men had faces like the dogs, hairless and hideous, their teeth bared in impossibly huge smiles. They were silent, but the death-heads on their caps were laughing, mocking him as he tried to crawl away, his hands slipping on the blood. The dogs smiled at him, two loping behind him to cut him off.

Charles screamed, one hand outstretched in a hopeless attempt to ward the dogs off. Once, long ago, it had worked. Once, long ago, the dogs had cowered and yelped, slinking back to the guards. Now they just laughed, their teeth gleaming. He screamed again, and the dogs screamed back, even the guards threw back their canine heads and howled mockery at his feeble defence.

The dog behind him leapt, catching him on the shoulder and knocking him flat on his stomach. He tried to push himself up, but his arms didn't work, useless and shattered as the sticks of his legs. No, that wasn't right, this had happened long ago, before the camps, before Erik. He wasn't meant to be here like this.

The dogs laughed again, as though they could hear his thoughts. "No meat on you, boy." The death-heads mocked. "What does it matter if you feed our dogs? You'll be dead and gone next selection anyway."

Charles screamed again, trying to back away but already surrounded. "Kill him." The deaths-heads chanted. "Kill the boy. Tear his flesh and crush his bones and burn him to ashes."

The guards howled, dropping onto all fours and creeping towards him. Wolves in SS uniform. They growled as they came closer, saliva dripping from their muzzles and mixing with the blood. Charles tried to scuttle away, but even that slight movement was denied to him and a huge paw came down in the middle of his back, pinning him to the floor. Charles screamed a last time as he felt the dog's teeth, as tearing and sharp as razors, shear through his thin skin, shredding flesh and grinding against bone. The pain turned his stomach and tears poured down his cheeks. Teeth in his arms, crushing through the bones of his legs, stripping the skin off his back. His screams were answered with a moan, low and horribly human. First one, then another, and another of the dogs took up the cry, until Charles could feel their breath against his ear, and the largest SS-turned-wolf bent its head and fastened its teeth around his throat.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The moans follow him into the waking world, but the teeth don't. He can still feel hot breath on the back of his neck, but when he turns to look it is only Erik, his face slack in sleep.

Erik.

That first time he saw him, on the train to Auschwitz. He'd been too blinded with tears for his murdered family to even pick out the features of the boy who had fallen over him, and who lay curled up where he fell, clutching at his twisted arms. He only heard later of how the Nazis who captured him had tied his hands behind his back and hung him from them until his shoulders dislocated; but at the time all he saw was someone who needed his help, and somehow that was enough to shock him out of his grief-stricken apathy.

Charles shakes the images away, wincing when even that movement grinds the sores covering his back against the rough cloth beneath him. He and Erik are lying on the canvas covered floor of an army truck, with a handful of the other survivors of the train, the ones dubbed too ill to wait for medical assistance. Charles isn't sure if he should be pleased that Erik had been one of those chosen to be driven to the nearest red cross hospital, but he is glad that he had lied about who he is. Changing his name is a trivial price to pay to stay with Erik.

The had never separated before. Even before they had sworn never to leave, although then it had been simply out of fear. If you lost sight of someone, it was uncertain if you'd ever see them again, or if they'd still be breathing if you did. There were too many dangers. A mad Kapo. A bored guard. Or even a fellow prisoner, one willing to murder you for the coat on your back or the shoes on your feet. Even together, it wouldn't make much difference if they were caught, but an extra pair of eyes were always useful to avoid danger.

Charles screws his eyes shut furiously, willing the images to stop. It is over. They are free. They are in allied hands, and the dangers only exist in his own mind.

What a pity then, that Charles knows all too well how dangerous those are.

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He was standing in the dappled shade beneath the shade of the trees, the ground was soft under his feet, like mud or quicksand, and the air was still save for his ragged breathing. He was standing on the edge of a long pit, jet black and yawning wide. And he was going to die.

It was a game, shooting cadavers into the pit, but Erik was alive. The bodies standing on either side of him weren't. He should know, because he had seen them die. They had once been his family. They stood on the edge of the pit with him, staring blankly up ahead- at least his mother did. His father's eyes had been eaten away long ago. He could see the maggots working away in the sockets. His mother's brown hair had come out in clumps, and the skin was starting to peel away from the gaping gunshot wounds in her back. His sister stood on his father's other side, her beautiful face aged and pickled like an old woman's, the skin drawn back from her face until the bones tore through.

He wanted to cry out, to scream that he was alive, that he didn't want to die and fall into the pit with the dead, but he couldn't move. He was crying, his shoulders shaking in silent, helpless sobs as he heard the guns behind him click warningly. It was hopeless. He had to move, or they would open fire, and he would be like his parents, dead and rotting, target practise for his killers.

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Erik is still unconscious, but lying next to him, Charles can feel his heartbeat has slowed from the frantic fluttering he had felt in the train to a more steady rhythm. His breathing has also slowed, and Charles hopes this meant that whatever the medic had given him has worked. The image of what would happen if it didn't work, or if the medic has deliberately poisoned his friend, stings Charles' thoughts. He imagines watching his friend's breathing slowing still further, then finally stopping entirely.What had he been thinking, letting anyone near Erik? Hadn't he seen enough to understand what people could do, given half a chance?

The dogs that killed his family…

The guns that killed Erik's…

The gas that killed many more than he could ever know…

The men who had hounded them, day after week after month after year, beating and starving and killing with the only intention to see them work until they died…

No. That was then. They are free now. They are _safe_ now. What could anyone possibly gain in poisoning Erik? This is the real world, not the endless nightmare of the camps, people don't kill others for fun in the real world. Besides, a sneaking voice whispers, they wouldn't have to. Just wait another day or so and it would be over anyway. Erik has been getting steadily worse and he would have died soon. And they would have been nothing Charles could have done about it.

The look on Erik's face in Belsen, the night before they were set to leave. That horrible smile that outdid the skull his face had become. Erik knew he wasn't going to be able to get to the transport tomorrow, they both did. The typhus that had swept through the camp had robbed him of what strength he had left, and if he wasn't able to get to the train, he would be shot.

Stop it.

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The guns fired, a dozen shots that split the quiet evening air to ribbons and nearly deafened him. A bullet shot past his ear, another passed terrifyingly close to his neck, and a third grazed his back but none of them hit. Erik had re-lived this scene so many times it was familiar, the strange feeling that the bullets couldn't get near him, like magnets repelling each other.

The corpses beside him were not so lucky, putrefying flesh flew in all directions, along with thick, clotted black blood. One by one they toppled into the pit as the bullets hit them.

Erik swayed and felt the ground start to crumble and give way beneath him. Beside him, he felt his father's bony hand close on his, the other taking hold of his daughter's. His mother rested an arm on his shoulders, an arm only attached to her body by a few rotting tendons, the whole limb thick with flies. He could feel the insects crawling on his face as his family jumped into the pit, pulling him in with them.

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Charles picks up the flask of water the medic left him. That, the coat the soldier left Erik and the clothes on their backs. That is all they have by the way of material possessions- if the rags they wear could be counted as clothing, which he doubts.

He can taste the water now as he drinks it, though the liquid still hurts his cracked lips. It's warm and tastes of petrol and engine oil. The little food he managed to force down earlier threatens to come back up but he swallows bile and drinks anyway.

It was so much worse that time. It had been summer, but all that meant was trading unbearable cold for unendurable thirst. That had chewed snow during the winter, heedless of the stomach cramps, and in spring had stolen mouthfuls of water from a nearby stream when no one was looking. But the snow had melted and the stream dried up, so that night they crept out of the barrack window.

They hadn't been able to eat and Charles could remember how that evening, he'd watched Erik lick blood from his cut fingers in an effort to quench his thirst. They couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't even speak- although by now they knew each other so well they hardly needed to.

The window had been small, but by now they were so thin that wasn't really a problem. They had crept along the walls, keeping in the shadows and out of sight of the night guards and the dogs and the SS, and crawled through the half-open window of what passed as a washroom in Birkenau. The foul water from the taps had no taste then either, but it had felt like drinking acid, burning his cracked mouth and tongue mercilessly. They had drunk and drunk until they thought they'd drown, with each painful mouthful breathing life back into them.

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The earth tasted of rot and decay when the first spadeful was thrown in, drizzling clods of earth and pebbles over his head. He struggled to his feet, his legs sinking into the soft earth up to his knees. He cried out, but the was no answer but another pile of earth emptied over his head. Erik struggled to the side of the pit, stumbling as the thick earth tried to drag his feet out from under him. Whether due to the earth being thrown in or not, the level of the ground was slowly rising, now up to his thighs. It seemed liquid, not so much mud as dark brown water, lapping hungrily at him as though longing to pull him under.

He scrabbled at the sides of the pit, trying to find purchase to pull himself free. His breath coming sharp and fast as his fingers slid uselessly through the mud.

A skeletal hand emerged from the loose earth closing on his wrist and pulling him away from the wall. Erik cried out as he felt himself being drawn further into the mud. Grains of earth struck his face, half blinding him to the sight of his mother's dead face, twisted in a revolting parody of her sweet smile as she emerged from the earth. Her free hand- this one still clad in discoloured flesh- stroked his cheek before resting on his shoulder, pushing him down, the earth now lapping around his neck.

And now there were more. Not just his parents, Erik could recognise the bloated, rotting features of his family sliding from the mud. His sister, half her face blown off from these last shots. His little brother, who's body they had never found, but who appeared beaten and broken. The twins, their remaining skin stretched tightly over their bones, a reminder of the typhus that had killed them. All of them, wordlessly smiling at their long-lost brother, their hands tightening their grip and drawing him down to drown and join them at long last.

Erik screamed.

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Charles looks up as Erik groans suddenly, his head flopping to one side. He is still uncomfortably hot to the touch, but the fever does seem to have gone down. He hopes that when Erik does wake up- _and he would. He would. He had to-_ he wouldn't be in the delirious state he had been in the last time.

It had been frightening, hearing Erik rave and scream in Polish and being unable to do anything- or even understand what his friend was shouting about since his own command of the language was uncertain at best. Frightening, and only reinforcing how helpless he was to aid him.

Charles lowers himself onto his elbows next to his friend, ignoring the pain that shoots up his arms at the pressure and the way they tremble under his weight. He pours a little water from the flask into his cupped hand, dripping it carefully into Erik's half-open mouth.

The last time he'd tried that, Erik had choked and nearly drowned, and it had been only by turning him on his side that Charles had avoided killing his friend with his own hands.

This time though, Erik swallows the small amount. A tongue slides out to lick off the few drops that had landed on his lips. Charles smiles and wipes his wet hand over his friend's burning forehead before trying again.

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The earth that filled his mouth tasted of metal and oil, he tried to spit it out, but it was only replaced by more. Skeleton hands held his arms, his legs, clenched tight on the fabric of his clothes. Two were knotted into his hair, pulling his head back to drown him. He couldn't fight, he was held too tightly, he tried to jerk his head out of the hands, but they were too strong. He couldn't breath, the earth covered both his nose and mouth, and he could feel it start to trickle down his throat. The urge to cough was overwhelming, and his lungs were screaming for air. Sooner or later he would have give in to one or other of those impulses, and let the earth fill his lungs.

With a final surge of strength, Erik pulled his face free of the muck, coughing out the mud from his mouth and emptying the stale air from his lungs for one last breath.

And at that moment, the dead hands came from the earth again and pulled him back under, a skeletal mouth closing over his in a twisted parody of the kiss of life.

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Erik's eyes snap open. Everything is dark and his eyes don't seem to be working normally, and all he can make out is a dark shape of someone leaning over him, silhouetted against a darker ceiling. He draws in a sharp breath, and chokes as he inhales water.

He flinches away as hands close on him again, but they hold him tightly, drawing him up as he starts to cough. His head spins and he clings to the person for support, feeling as though he might throw up. An arm slides around him, holding him upright, and one hand unclenches from his shoulder to stroke over the rough stubble covering his head.

Erik stops shaking and draws in a ragged breath. The world feels as thought it's tilting very slightly off balance, but at least he knows who's arms he's in.

It was only a day after they had met that he had been able to see Charles' face properly for the first time. It was strange, he had built up an image of him in his mind that had been almost precisely accurate. The strong-boned face, the wide wild eyes looking too young for his years, the lines of fear and dread.

"Charles-" Even that one word hurts his raw throat. So he leaves it to his friend to fill in what he would have said. Where are we? What's going on? Are you alright?

When they'd met, the only language they had shared had been German, which Charles barely knew how to speak and which he most certainly didn't want to speak. Later, in the camps, they had been able to talk in the crude mismatch of languages the inmates used. He'd had to pick up some English and Charles Polish, but they'd been able to speak fairly well. Later, they knew each other so well they'd barely needed to talk at all.

The hand on his scalp slides down to support his shoulders, easing him back down to the hard floor. The rough fabric hurts his sore back and he winces and tried to turn over, to find a more comfortable position. The fog in front of his eyes clears a little so he can see Charles bending over him, see the relief in his eyes. "Hello Erik," He's still hoarse but better than the last time he heard him, and it's comforting to hear a familiar voice. "Welcome back."

It doesn't feel like it. He feels so sick he can't tell if it's due to hunger or not. Probably. It feels as though they're still in the train even though he's pretty sure they aren't moving. The world still seems as if it's swaying, and the clattering of the wheels on the rails appears to have taken up residence in his head. He presses the side of his face against the floor, the rough cloth cool against his burning skin.

The unbearable heat of the bunk in Belsen. It was an unusually hot April, and the barrack was stifling. The stench from the dead and dying was indescribable, but to venture outside would be suicide for one in his condition, even assuming he could walk. The feeling of sliding slowly in delirium, the panic of never knowing where he was, the terror of awakening alone for the first time in three years until he almost wished he'd hurry up and die to get it over and done with.

And it seems as thought he won't be allowed any peace here either. Charles tilts his head back up and for a moment Erik is afraid he might be sick, before something wonderfully cold is pressed against his lips. He tastes metal for a moment, welcome and chill and familiar, then his head is tipped back further and water fills his mouth.

The taste is electric, like life pouring back into him. The water is as cold as the metal, and has the same flavour. He drinks greedily, forgetting his aching stomach, forgetting the thunder in his head, just drinking and swallowing and licking his lips for any stray drops and-

He pulls back. He may be ill, but he can see what Charles' doing. It wouldn't be the first time his friend cheated himself for Erik's benefit, and he certainly won't let him do it now, particularly with something as precious _-delicious, wonderful, perfect-_ as water. However he got this flask, it's anyone's guess how long it's going to have to last them. Charles might not have learnt anything from Auschwitz, but he has. And the most important lesson he learnt was that everything had to be shared, because if Charles died, then there wouldn't be much point in going on.

He'd been thirsty then as well, so much that he was on the verge of pushing through the ranks and drinking down the whole barrel of the foul mixture they called tea by himself. Even the knowledge that doing so would get him nothing more than a bullet barely stopped him. His hands were bleeding from the sharp stones he'd carried, and as they lined up wearily he lifted them to his lips and licked the blood off, trying to quench his thirst on his own liquid. A short way behind him, Charles was silent, he hadn't spoken for most of the day and his mouth hung open like that of one of the dogs he so hated. He looked like Erik felt, his mouth stripped raw and his blood thick, as if even that was drying up.

The tea was lukewarm at best, and when Erik got to the barrel it was stone cold, but he barely cared, swallowing half of it with a gulp, sighing in relief as the water entered his system. His thirst was by no means quenched, but at least he could think coherently. Which meant he was in full possession of his senses when he saw what happened next. One of the Kapos, a German who oversaw what passed as a hospital, and who was widely believed to be insane, had walked up and poured something into the barrel. Erik couldn't see what it was, but judging by Charles' expression, even he couldn't be persuaded to drink it.

The rake-thin sixteen year old broke out of line and stood next to Erik, sending him a desperate, pleading look.

If it had been anyone else, Erik would have drunk the rest of his ration in front of them, savouring what he had that they didn't. But with Charles…

Erik groaned, and passed the cup to his friend before temptation overtook him, and tried to ignore the sounds Charles made as he hungrily swallowed his share, biting his lip against the tightness that was quickly returning to his throat and mouth.

He licks his lips regretfully, and passes the flask back to Charles.

"Erik?"

He doesn't trust his voice. Even if his tongue could form the words, his throat feels so dry that he fears it might crack if he tries to speak. Instead he narrows his eyes at his friend, willing him to take the hint and stop tempting him with things he knows they can't afford to waste.

Charles smiles, and Erik knows he's got the message -sometimes he thinks his friend can read minds- even if his response is a bit inappropriate. The smile looks odd on his gaunt face, as though it was painted on, or as if Charles were wearing a mask. And instead of putting the flask away, or having a drink himself, he offers it to Erik again. "It's okay," His voice is gentle, soothing despite the slight grate, familiar.

It had been three years ago, the first time he'd heard Charles' voice. Soft, strangely comforting and thick with grief and shed tears. But he was in no state to appreciate the attempted help, curled as he was on the hard floor of the transport train, his dislocated shoulders a spreading knot of wildfire and cold, grey, draining pain.

The hand on his face brings him back to the present, fingers tracing a well-worn pattern along his cheekbones. "It's okay," he repeats, "We're safe, the British army stopped the train and we're safe." The last is spoken as if Charles wants to convince himself just as much as he wants to convince Erik. "We have more water, and we have food, you can drink as much as you want."

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Erik looks at him, his expression confused in a way that would be entertaining; even sweet if he weren't so ill, and Charles so tired. The desperate burst of energy that has driven him through the last few hours has gone, and all he wants to do is curl up next to his friend and sleep for month after month until they feel better and the whole nightmare of the last three years is gone and forgotten.

Although it feels as thought it'll never be over, with the images replaying over and over in his mind. The jaws of the dogs, the muzzle of the guns, the hunger and thirst and pain and the screams and the flames-

Stop.

He has won one victory though, Erik lifts his head obediently and swallows the last few mouthfuls of water from the flask. His eyes narrowed again in warning that if Charles is lying, he is going to get very angry, which would be more worrying if it wasn't coming from someone half-dead from typhus. Instead Charles just smiles at him again, the expression feeling strange on his lips after so long, and lies down on his stomach next to his friend, crawling under the rough blanket and long army coat that serves them for bed covering.

The soldier that had brought them to the medic paused on his way out, then took off his long coat- too warm for the late spring weather- and draped it over Erik. It was thick and soft, and dusty with the road. The man had murmured something awkward about helping fellow countrymen, and hurried out.

Charles wonders if the man would still have done this if he knew that Erik wasn't English, and stamps on the thought. Of course he would, not everyone behaves like a Nazi.

Erik can't keep up the scowl, as Charles knew he couldn't. He barely has the strength to lift his head, let alone stay awake for any length of time. Charles feels a chill when Erik's eyes finally close again and he falls asleep; the fear that his friend might not wake up again slowly returning.

He had faced that fear every day for the last few weeks, as Erik grew weaker and weaker and he had to leave him in the barracks to scavenge from the other prisoners, scraping together food to keep them alive just a little longer. The fear had been almost crippling then. Not knowing if he'd come back to find Erik dead from the typhus devouring him from the inside or murdered at the hands of another prisoner or dragged away by the SS in a surprise raid on their barrack.

It was well founded then, but it's irrational now, he's not so far gone that he doesn't know that. But he's seen so many people fall into that eternal sleep that the fear never quite leaves him. Charles presses one hand on Erik's chest, feeling his heart beating, and the slow rise and fall of his chest. There's enough room to lie apart on the floor, but old habits are hard to break and he stays close to his friend, his head resting on Erik's chest. The hard edges of bone dig into his cheek, but it's better than the cold floor.

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The hands close on him. They were gloves in real life but here they're paws, thick and furry and clenching mercilessly on his shoulder, the claws tearing through his coat. He tries to cry out to his mother and brother, but no sound comes out. He can feel his lips shape the words; _they've-caught-us-run-_ but he can't hear them.

The French soldier doesn't have a face, just a blank stretch of skin, and he knows it's useless to say anything, because he wouldn't listen even if he could hear. He tries anyway;

The soldier holding him is merciless, twisting his arms behind his back as he pushes him forwards. In front of him, Kurt Marko is snarling at the SS. Charles knows what he is saying, the words have echoed in his skull for so long he knows them off by heart, but here they're muted, a dull babble of sound. _You-can't-do-this you-can't-keep-us-here you-have-no-right we-are-civilians_. The SS in his dream ignore Marko as thoroughly as those in reality did, dragging the four of them into the room.

The part of Charles Xavier that know he's dreaming knows what will happen next, but his dream-self is oblivious to the danger. Oblivious that is, until his stepfather and stepbrother stand up, facing the guards. He sees the scorn in Cain's eyes when he looks at him, and sees his lips move, although again the words are blurred _Get-up-you-faggot fight-you-stupid-coward. _He doesn't move, and can only stare as the two men lash out at the guards holding them. But the guards are no longer simply guards, and the fists sink into the open jaws of a snarling wolf's-head. The jaws clamp down and the hands come off in its teeth.

Around them, the SS's faces distend into hideous mockeries of that of dogs, hairless and blind, their muzzles fixed in eternal mocking grins that match the laughing death's-heads on their caps.

And the dogs start to howl.


	3. Chapter two

Chapter Two

Erik's eyes open, disoriented as his mind struggles to make sense of what he's seeing. He's vaguely aware that it's taking longer than it should for his mind to reconnect itself to the real world, and explain why everything's at such an odd angle.

It's easier with the eyes closed, because if he keeps them open too long everything start to swing and rock wildly, and he feels even worse. His stomach aches to the point where he wants to curl up against the pain, but he's learnt to live with that. If anything, hunger has been his most faithful companion throughout these last six years.

He can barely remember what it feels like not to be hungry, if hunger's the right name for it. It reminds him of how his shoulders had felt when the Nazis had tortured him, at first the pain had been sharp, as though daggers were being plunged in, then it had dulled, slow and draining and cold- and far more deadly.

The crippling exhaustion is a more recent acquaintance, but it's proving diligent, and even this last rest hasn't satisfied it. His body hurts when he moves, the raw spots, cuts and open sores scraping painfully against the rough fabric he's lying on, and his ribs are aching, something heavy lying on them.

Erik twists his head to the side, feeling the cold metal of the floor through a hole in the cloth, and forces his eyes open.

Of course. Charles.

He's pressed up next to him, eyes closed and fast asleep. The weight of him is comforting after all these years, a reaffirmation that they are both here, together, but Erik is not so feverish that the irony passes unnoticed.

More often that not, this was how they slept, crushed together on a bunk much too narrow for the four people forced into it. Erik was relatively lucky, he was in the middle, but Charles slept on the edge, arms and legs thrown over Erik to stop himself falling down on top of the less fortunate who slept on the floor. Then as the weeks would passed, the barrack would empty as its inhabitants died off one by one. He and Charles would have the bunk to themselves for a short while before another transport arrived with the next bunch of prisoners. But even when they'd had space, they slept in the same positions. Hanging on to each other in sleep as grimly as they did while awake.

And even here, in Charles' proclaimed safety, that habit refuses to be broken.

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Erik wakes from a doze he hadn't realised he had fallen into when the floor reverberates suddenly, the metal beneath his cheek trembling violently to a low, mechanical growl before falling still. He tries to hoist himself up on one arm, but Charles is still asleep and a dead weight against him, and his arms don't even attempt to obey him, collapsing when he tries to put any weight on them.

The reverberation starts again, and this time the growl is a roar, shaking the whole truck. Erik closes his eyes again, it's almost like he can feel the engine starting up, warming and moving, oil and petrol moving through the pipe like blood through veins; but he's feverish and half-asleep, so it's probably just his imagination.

The feeling is oddly comforting, and he finds he can finally believe Charles' earlier assurance that they've been rescued. There's something calming in the clatter and growl of the metal as the truck slowly starts to move, something even the bump of the uneven track can't break, and he has almost fallen asleep again when Charles shakes him.

Erik opens his eyes a third time, a thin flash of irritation breaking through the mist of numbness shrouding his emotions. Irritation, and maybe even the smallest amount of amusement, drawn out of hiding by the realisation of safety. Apparently, this is the one thing he can sleep through that Charles can't.

The number of times Erik had to shake him awake, when the other boy slept through both the bell and the Kapo's screams- the two sounding remarkably similar to Erik's ears. He didn't blame Charles for wanting to stay asleep, not when reality was such a nightmare. He'd gladly join him in slumber if not to the knowledge that if he did, the honour of waking them would fall either to the Kapo's club or to an SS gun. Either way, it would end up becoming a sleep from which neither of them would ever wake up from.

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Charles strokes one hand over Erik's forehead, wondering worriedly how high his fever must be to be able to sleep through this. To his surprise, the skin is cool and clammy with sweat, the fever broken. Even so, despite the noise of the truck starting up, Erik closes his eyes and leans into Charles' hand, quickly falling asleep again.

He sits up, drawing one of the army blankets up over his shoulders and pulling the long coat more closely around Erik. It isn't cold this late in April, but the evening air has a bite to it, and he seems to feel the cold more nowdays.

He'd never liked the winter, and those in Poland were beyond anything he could have imagined. They had been bad enough in America, when he'd had warm clothing and good food and a soothing blaze in the fireplace, but here… It hadn't even been cold, it was too small a word to describe what it felt like when the very air seemed to be draining the very life out of your body. Charles had read, long ago, that people in the arctic had more than a hundred words for snow. One day he had wondered how many they had for cold, and if any could explain what it felt like to be forced to work like this, outside in thin clothes and no food and sub-zero temperatures? 'Suicide' probably, no one would be stupid enough to do this for any other reason. He remembers smiling bitterly at the absurdity, gaining him an odd look from Erik, who was as cold as he was and had no idea what they had to smile about.

He slides back, the fabric rumpling under his legs, and lifts Erik's head into his lap. He doesn't wake up, but what might be a smile briefly touches his face before fading again. Charles rests a hand on his head again, the contact comforting as he stares at the back of the truck, his eyes tracing the stretches of tarp that serve as a door. Every time the truck hits a rut they flap, despite the toggles keeping them closed, affording a brief glimpse of the outside world.

The ground is green with grass, not brown and grey as it was when they were loaded into the train. The sky is clear of the grey ash clouds that didn't even shock him in the end any more, for all that he knew- No. He won't think about that. They're safe. He doesn't _need _to think about that. The chill breeze brings fresh scents of wet earth and early evening, making Charles realise for the first time just how filthy he had Erik are. In the camps, he didn't even notice the smell any more.

Except the smell of burning. That, he could never get used to.

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Charles grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes, regretting it when he touches an open cut on his cheek, still raw despite the fact it was made several days ago.

She was little more than a skeleton, a gypsy corpse with a feverish light still shining in her eyes, a refugee sent here from Auschwitz, like them. He wondered how she'd been able to escape the gas chambers. Ordinarily Charles wouldn't have given her a second glance. She'd be dead in a few days after all. But she had bread, almost a whole loaf clutched in her claw-like hands. Charles didn't know how she'd gotten it- perhaps she'd stolen it, or sold her body to a Kapo with necrophiliac tendencies- and he didn't care. All he cared about was that this was more food than he had seen for a long time, enough to keep both Erik and him alive long enough for the English army- now close enough that the sound of their guns was a constant refrain- to liberate the camp. This woman didn't need the bread, she'd be dead either way. But they needn't be.

He was painfully aware that long ago, in some other time, even considering this would have struck him as despicable. But then, he hadn't felt the cold claws of starvation digging inside him, nor had he had someone he cared about relying on him. And the memory of his friend, lying alone back in the barracks where Charles had been forced to leave him, was more than enough to make him act.

The woman had been expecting trouble. With a full loaf, who wouldn't be? She'd spun around when she heard him coming, clutching the bread against her filthy blouse, her spare hand extended like a claw. Charles moved first, his hand closing around the gypsy's wasted wrist, twisting her arm aside to make a grab for the bread. Instinctively, she dropped it, and clawed him across the face with ragged nails. Charles yelled as he felt her draw blood, then the training of long years in the men's camp took over and he kneed the gypsy between her legs.

It didn't quite have the effect it had on men, but it knocked the woman over, allowing Charles to grab the loaf and run.

His hand traces the cut again. The woman had died a day later, and it chills Charles to realise that, thanks to him, there's now nothing left to remember her by but a rotting body and this cut. It's an old guilt, and he's not alone in feeling it, having survived when so many others died.

If you treat people like animals, sooner or later they start acting like animals.

been 

But not to Erik. He hangs to that thought like a drowning man to a lifeline. Never Erik.

It had been their line in the sand, the reason they had come to trust each other so implicitly. Even to begin with, before they had grown so dependant on each other, he had never stolen, cheated or even fought with Erik for anything. Either they shared, or they went without. Saving that last scrap of humanity within themselves while he stole bread from dying women and Erik beat other prisoners bloody for clothes in winter, and they killed and lied and betrayed in the name of hunger and cold and desperation.

The memory of hunger reminds Charles of his own. It isn't as bad as it had been, as he'd been able to eat something earlier. The memory of the medic's face almost makes him smile.

The medic gave him a smile who's pity might have been insulting had Charles not been long past caring, opening a small metal box and handing him something wrapped in tin foil. Even through the metal sheeting, he could smell food, unconsciously licking his lips as he tore off the foil to reveal the sandwich the medic had obviously meant for his own lunch. The medic's expression was comical when Charles pulled the top slice off and stuffed it into his mouth. It was either ham or corned beef, he couldn't tell. The bread was white and soft and covered in butter, and after three years living off breads made mostly of sawdust, it was the best thing he had ever tasted. His mouth was so full he couldn't chew properly, swallowing large chunks he knew he was going regret later. The other slice he folded in half and stuffed into the one pocket in his clothes that hadn't split.

If his mouth wasn't so full, he would have smiled at the look of horror on the medic's face, although his humour faded abruptly when the man caught him by the shirt and snatched the food back, Charles groped for it, his hand closing on the medic's wrist and swallowing painfully. "That was for Erik," he croaked, "He's sick, he-" The medic said something about contamination and dirt but Charles wasn't listening, only calming down when the medic handed him another sandwich, with the agreement that he would leave it in the foil until he ate it.

Charles sighs, looking down at Erik and stoking one hand over his head again. The last time his friend had eaten was in Belsen, and Charles had no way of telling how long ago that had been.

It had been a choice, food or water. He couldn't smuggle both past the SS guards- he didn't know if he could smuggle even one past them- and he'd chosen water. He'd eaten as much of the loaf as he could without throwing up -a depressingly small amount- and mashed the rest in his bowl with some water for Erik to eat. His friend was having trouble swallowing dry food, and they didn't serve soup in Belsen by that point, so this was the best he could do. Erik had been having one of his delirious periods, and Charles only managed to make him swallow less than half the bowl before he started to choke.

The truck hits a particularly large rut, and Charles nearly falls over as everything inside the truck jolts violently. It feels as though his bones are rattling, and one of the men in the truck with them starts to groan loudly. Charles cranes his head over his shoulder to scowl at the man, but a second rut sends him sprawling. Pain flashes up his left side as he lands badly, his arm twisted under him.

"Charles?"

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Erik tries to sit up, but even without Charles' weight, he can't quite manage it, his arms buckling under him. Stubbornly, he turns over on his front and drags himself painfully along on his stomach until he's face-to-face with his friend. Charles stretches out his left arm with a grimace, but it turn into a thin smile when he sees Erik.

The expression suits him much better now, Erik decides, and it's been a long time since he saw Charles smile so much.

There wasn't much to be pleased about in Belsen, or Auschwitz. Even a victory like transference to an easier kommando or managing to snatch enough food to sate their ravening hunger didn't really warrant a smile, more like a triumphant grimace that quickly faded when they remembered what others would have to pay for their victory, and felt the equivalent cost to their souls.

Even in the beginning, before they really realised just what a horrific situation they were in, they never smiled. Who would be able to? They'd both watched their parents die. Erik's at the muzzle of the Germans' guns, Charles' at the teeth of the SS' dogs.

He didn't remember much of the first few minutes of their meeting, only the pain in his arms. He can vaguely recall Charles' voice. Not what he said, that was blanked out and he couldn't understand English very well anyway, but the tone, soothing and gentle. The thing he remembers the best though, was the feeling of Charles' hands. Or more particularly, the agony he had felt when Charles had touched his shoulders to see what was wrong. It had been so blinding, so intolerable that he'd nearly screamed the train off the tracks. He'd tried to pull away, but the grip on him was too strong. He'd screamed again and again, stripping his already sore throat raw as those merciless fingers probed and drove into his twisted muscles. Finally, Charles had said something he definitely couldn't understand -he told him later that it had been an apology, and a warning that he'd never done this before- and twisted his arm first back up, then down.

The whole world had gone white and for a few, blissful moments, Erik didn't feel anything as his mind briefly shorted out.

Then the world returned, and he started screaming again. And again as Charles did the same with his other arm. He knew he should have been glad that of all the people he could have met in the transport, he had happened upon a medical student- and he was, later, when he realised that without the help he would have probably be sent straight to the gas chambers. But at the time, had he had full control of his arms, he would have probably hit Charles.

He nearly had afterwards, when Charles had come to talk to him. He had said something in English which Erik didn't understand. He had learnt some English, but he was nowhere near fluent. He'd snarled back in Polish, and Charles had tried German. He hadn't wanted to answer, the language felt like poison against his lips, but if the alternative was being left alone to dwell on his own thoughts, he'd talk.

It had been a relief to talk, on he knew was shared by Charles. They were both alone, had both seen their families murdered before their eyes, and to find someone to talk to in a world suddenly gone mad made it seem a little more tolerable.

And let them feel a little less alone.

It's frightening to think that he's the last one of his family left, but it's true. There were so many of them. Brothers and sisters. Cousins and aunts. Uncles and godparents. Grandmothers and Grandfathers. All dead now.

Erik leant impercievably closer to Charles, resting his head on his arm. He didn't want to dwell on those memories even now. He saw them often enough in his dreams.

He remembered every detail of that day, they had etched themselves into his mind like acid.

He remembered how strange it had felt to be frightened in this place. He had known every last inch of these woods, after all. Palming woods, only a little way from the village where he'd lived before the Germans had thrown them from their land. He used to play here when he'd been younger, before they had been locked in the ghetto, an innocent time. The woods had been as beautiful as he remembered them. The new spring leaves bright and glossy, although still small. They had gleamed in the morning sunshine, the dew glistening on them like freshly shed tears. The ground had been spongy from the last years dead leaves, the pungent smell he had almost forgotten after years in the ghetto almost cloying despite the fresh breeze. He remembered seeing his sister looking around, her pinched, pale face relaxing for the first time since February.

One of the men- an old rabbi who had lived down the street from them- had spoken up then. He didn't understand. Where were they? Where was the train? Were they lost?

The German soldier hadn't answered, hadn't even looked at him, only gesturing towards a small pile of shovels lying on the ground beneath the trees. Pick them up.

People shuffled uncertainly, someone coughed. Erik had stared at the spades, as puzzled as everyone else. A few weeks later he would have done as he was told as quickly as possible, but now he was just bewildered. Was it that the Germans wanted some workers here as well as in the East? But if so, where was the camp? And what did they want them to do with the shovels?

The rabbi had repeated his question, and received the same answer. And Erik had seen the SS' hand close around the handle of his revolver, and felt his skin go cold. He had hurried over to the pile, and picked up the first spade his hand touched. He could still remember the feel of the metal when he ran his hand absently over the raw edge of the metal, stroking over the rough edges where it had been badly cast.

His father had done the same, taking one for his wife even though he had to know she couldn't dig, and one for his daughter. None of them realising what was going to happen. The others had followed their lead, until only the rabbi had stayed where he was. He had demanded answers a third time, this time daring to catch the soldier's arm.

He would never forget the sound of the gun going off. It was deafening, and all Erik had been able to hear afterwards were echoes. The rabbi hadn't fallen, and only the slight swaying of his body betrayed that anything had happened.

The silence after the gunshot had been even louder than the shot itself.

No one had moved. Erik remembered feeling that he might never move again. He had hoped. Hoped so wildly and desperately that he had almost convinced himself. They all had. And that gunshot had smashed that hope. He'd wanted to be sick. He'd wanted to scream. He had to run. This was what was going to happen to them. He had known that as surely as he knew then that the spade he was holding was going to be used to dig his own grave.

And Erik had realised something. That after nearly three years in the ghetto, that after seeing people keel over and die in the streets, that even after watching helplessly as one member of his family after another died, that death had lost none of it's terror.

Erik closes his eyes now, as he did in the memory. Only this time, no tears fall. Erik suspects he's forgotten how to cry.

The rabbi had crumbled to the ground, a blooming rosette of blood spreading across his shirt. The white linen stuck out in Erik's memory, the man must have worn his best clothes for the journey.

Then the screams had started, and a woman turned to run, she had barely made it to the trees before the SS officer had raised his smoking gun a second time and fired again. The shot had split the air like a thunder crack, and the woman had crumpled into the bushes.

"You can run" The SS had said calmly in German, "It'll make no difference in the long run. Or you can dig, and make sure you are buried instead of being left for the animals to eat."

The memory of the bite of the metal edge when he had clutched the old spade to his chest, the memory of feeling so weak he feared his legs would give way. Remembering how all the sounds around him had blurred into incoherence, a uncertain curtain of noise, although whether it was pleas, threats, or just screams he couldn't recall even now. He had looked from the spade, to the ground where they were to dig- trying to comprehend that it would be his grave- and back up to the SS.

"Please." Erik remembered his father's voice, his words seeming to flow into each other. Please, my wife is not weak, she'll get better. Please. My son is strong, he can work. My daughter… my beautiful daughter… Please. Don't kill them. Please. Please.

It was useless, he'd known it then, and he knew it now.

He remembered the feeling of his mother's hand on his numb shoulder, interposing herself between him and the soldiers. His sister standing next to him, together, protective. For the last time.

The SS had barely glanced in their direction, and Erik remembered realising that they were nothing to him, just a quota he had to kill. "Then they'll be happy to dig, and give you a grave." He'd said idly.

The gun had come out again, pointing at him. Ever since, he has been terrified of guns. It hadn't even looked like a gun to him back then. Just a black hole that swallowed everything around it, ringed in glistening metal and filled with death.

Erik had been close to hyperventilating, the black pit growing in his vision until it eclipsed everything else, until he'd thought it might swallow him. The soft click of the safety catch was felt in his bones.

"Dig."

The barrel had doubled, then quadrupled, then faded from sight as needles stabbed his eyes and he wept for the last time. Then the world grew dark as they closed, tears slipping free and scalding his cheeks. He had been shaking uncontrollably by then, his hands clutching at the spade tightly enough to draw blood. His father's hand on his shoulder was painful, his mother's cries echoed in his ears. His sister silent, her breathing as ragged as Erik's own.

He hadn't been able to feel his legs when he walked, hadn't felt his arms as he dug. He remembered wanting the ground to be hard, wanting it to be iron. Hard and smooth and unbreakable. Impossible to bury someone in.

The ground had mocked his hopes, it had been soft and yielding, crumbling under his spade as he filled it. He couldn't remember seeing his parents beside him, couldn't remember hearing anything they might have said.

He wishes he had. It would have been the last time he would hear them, and he wishes he could remember that they had told him.

He had tried to dig slowly at first, prolonging the inevitable moment when the guns behind him would sound again. The back of his neck itched, and the world blurred again. He had wanted to stop crying, but his body barely seemed to belong to him. Beside him, he remembered seeing his mother bent over, digging her spade into the earth, and being barely able to make out her face through his tears.

"Schnell! Schnell!"

He had choked, his ribcage shuddering as the first sobs broke free of his throat. Tears cutting tracks through the dirt on his face. Another sob, his shoulders shaking, the tears dropping into the disturbed earth. He felt a hand on his shoulder, although he hadn't dared to look up and see who it was.

He wonders now who it had been.

"Schneller!"

The hand was withdrawn. Erik's own hands had hurt, the first blisters rising under the unfamiliar work. He alternated between working feverishly quickly, wanting it to be over and done with as quickly as possible, and going slowly, savouring every breath, no matter how futile.

Then it had been finished. A rough pit two meters wide by six long, with walls almost as tall as he was. That, he would never forget. The feel of his hands held tightly against the blade shovel, his breathing growing more and more ragged. The world dissolving into a blur of brown and grey through his tears as his body shuddered from gut-wrenching sobs. Pins and needles prickling his back and the nape of his neck, a sickening itch of anticipation. His father speaking, but it was as if he was hearing him from underwater, everything distorted.

He remembered the soldiers' footsteps as they walked to the edge of the pit. Remembered the realisation that they were going to die. Erik would never forget that heart-wrenching fear. He was barely sixteen and he was going to die. It seemed strange how he had been unable to wrap his mind around the idea. He was going to die. In a matter of seconds the bullets would strike and they would no longer breathe. He would die. His sister would die. His parents would die. He would die.

His mother's arm had slipped around his shoulders and his father's hand closed a final time on his arm. Determined that they not be separated even in this. The contact was unbearable, his skin screaming against even the touch of his clothes.

He remembered running his hand over the edge of his spade, the metal shivering under the touch, cool against his burning skin.

He remembered hearing the clicks as the safety catches on the guns were thrown back.

The feeling of his breathing, growing even faster, tasting salt. Trying to claim the breaths he would be soon unable to take.

Almost being able to feel the fingers tightening on the gun's triggers.

His hand tightening on the blade of the spade until the blood ran like tears and the metal seemed to twist out from under his hands.

The guns fired.

Erik could never understand what happened then. He'd felt a bullet skim past the side of his neck, a second brushing though his hair almost tenderly, the third touching his back, then, impossibly, seeming to bend away. The first two had struck the side of the pit, causing a small avalanche of pebbles and earth.

The third had hit his mother.

He'd known she was hit even before he hear her scream, a split-second before his father's. The sight of their bodies jerking under the impact as the soldiers fired again, his father toppled forward under the blows, his sister made no sound, only a soft, broken sigh as she crumpled like a rag-doll. His mother keeled over sideways, hitting Erik and knocking him down with her.

The taste of the earth, the taste of death.

Charles' shirt is torn and dirty and stinks, but he doesn't care, burying his face in the tattered fabric until he can barely breathe. He doesn't cry. He can't. He spilt out all his tears on his family's grave all those years ago.

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Charles knows what Erik is thinking. After three years in each other's constant company it would be impossible not to. Nothing else makes Erik go quite so tense, or make his eyes shimmer as though there should be tears there, but they never come. And nothing else make him draw quite so close, seeking comfort that Charles is in absolutely no position to give him. Still, he reaches over with his good arm and pulls Erik closer. Half the people who could see them are delirious, the other half are unconscious, and he can see that Erik desperately wants the closeness, even if he is too worried about the consequences to act himself.


	4. Chapter two, second half

The SS shouting as their dogs slunk back, refusing to attack him. They didn't know what to do with him, and wanted to get rid of him. He could see the fear in their eyes, what kind of monster was he that even their own dogs refused to approach him?

-Send him to Auschwitz. They wanted freaks, let them deal with this one-

-And what reason do we give to the officer? He's American-

-Where's his passport then? We'll send him under paragraph 175. You heard what the other boy called him. If he's guilty, they all end up there anyway, and the Americans would want to be rid of him. If not, who'd know? Who'd bother checking with a faggot?-

Charles feels his stomach turn over the memory and looks down at Erik. His friend's head rests on his chest, his face expressionless. Erik too is reliving painful memories. He doesn't cry. Charles has never seen him cry, not even when they'd met, with Erik half out of his mind with pain and grief.

Not even through everything that had followed. He'd watched Erik turn from a thin boy to a walking skeleton, the flesh slowly melting from his face like wax under a flame. He's been forced to watch him beaten until even his clothes were stained red. He's seen his skin break into sores so deep he'd almost expected to see bone, and seen him fall so ill that he still can't quite believe he didn't die. But he's never seen him cry.

It was the closest he had ever seen Erik come to tears, and though his eyes were dry, Charles could see his shoulders shaking in silent, dry sobs. Like his friend, he hadn't cried since his parents had died, not even after the dreams, but he had no such shame now, and it seemed that every step he'd taken that day had been wetted with his tears.

Erik blamed himself, and although Charles would die rather than say it aloud, he blamed Erik too. If only he hadn't been so clumsy as to get caught. If only he hadn't been so foolish as to try and steal from their Kapo. If only he'd had the sense to think up a good explanation- although how Erik could explain how he just happened to be holding the Kapo's ration of meat, Charles had no idea.

He knew it wasn't fair to blame Erik, but nothing in this place was fair, otherwise they wouldn't be here to begin with. He knew that if it wasn't for the other boy, he would in all likelihood not still be alive, and that Erik's thefts was the only way they could eat most days, but that didn't excuse what his mistake had cost them.

The Kapo had been furious, and had not been satisfied with simply beating the living daylights out of both of them- the results of which Charles can still feel even beyond his current exhaustion. Still enraged, he had ordered them out of the relatively good command they had managed to get into, and sent them to the punishment command.

The Strafkommando. Short of throwing yourself on the electric fence or being sent to the gas, being transferred to the Strafkommando was the surest way of getting killed. They had the least food, the hardest work, and a life expectancy of three weeks at the most.

Charles couldn't sleep. He was exhausted beyond anything he could imagine, but the pain wouldn't let him rest. His bones felt as though they had cracked, splintering to pieces, leaking marrow and slicing through muscle and skin. Every movement was agony and even lying still sent bolts of pain through him.

It was dark, but he could see Erik was awake, the faint light from the slit windows reflected in his eyes. He met his gaze, and flinched when Erik touched his shoulder, his arm moving jerkily. The pain in his shoulders must be unbearable.

"I'm sorry." His voice was a thin rasp, and even in the darkness Charles could see the blood staining his fingers where the rough stone had scraped his skin raw.

'Not as sorry as I am.' Charles nearly said, but stayed silent. His arm was incredibly painful to move, as though the stones they had been made to carry had indeed splintered them. Erik's skin was clammy with cold sweat, and he was shivering in the freezing night air.

Charles braced his arm on the edge of the bunk, and half pulled, half-levered his screaming body closer. It was a risk, the fear that someone would realise the true reason he had been sent here, but it was late, and the barrack was half-empty so no one was likely to see. Besides, Charles thought bitterly to himself, what else could they possibly do to them if anyone did see? Even shooting them would be just accelerating the inevitable.

It just seemed so utterly pointless. Not just the work, which was so useless Charles didn't known why they didn't just send them to the gas chambers if they wanted them dead so badly, but… they had been here for almost a year now, which was a year more than most could boast of. And now they were going to die. And it would all have been for nothing. They had hoped and dreamed until that was all that sustained them, the hope of liberation, the dream of seeing the whole horrible place torn down and stamped into the ground until no trace of it remained. It might still happen, but they wouldn't be there to see it.

And everything they had done would all have been for nothing.

Charles closed his eyes. Then opened them again when Erik brushed his fingers across his cheek. He traced the lines of his face, over too-prominent cheekbones and hollowed eyes, across lips grown thin with despair, then back up, over his bare scalp where his hair had never grown back.

It was a mark at how close they'd grown that Charles didn't even blink at such an intimate touch, feeling nothing but a vague gratefulness for the distraction.

Then Erik kissed him, a soft brush of his lips across Charles'. He drew back, apparently studying his friend's astonished face, then lent close enough to whisper in his ear; "I love you."

Charles had learnt enough Polish not to mistake Erik's meaning, if his tone hadn't been proof enough.

"I just want you know," Erik continued, now sounding slightly defensive, "Since it will not matter soon." He shrugged, then pulled back and curled in on himself, shutting out the world as he tried to find sleep.

Charles felt an absurd desire to laugh, because Erik was perfectly right and completely wrong and now they really were going to have to survive. Erik was right, and he loved him back, and it was ironic that it was he who needed to be told the truth to realise what he'd felt all along, after all, he was the one who supposedly read minds. But Erik was wrong, because it did matter, then and always. And they were going to have to survive because he couldn't let this turn out to mean nothing.

Erik was still shivering when he put his arms around him, his joints screaming protest. The orange light outside shone in Erik's eyes they opened, then closed again when Charles kissed him back, wishing his arms were strong enough to attempt a hug.

For once, Charles doesn't shudder at a memory, only stroking his thumb over the sharp edge Erik's cheekbone, feeling the strange-yet-familiar warmth in his heart. Erik looks at him and smiles, and Charles knows his emotions must be quite clear. Despite crowded truck and the fear of being seen and their own filthy condition, it seems like to most natural thing in the world to tilt his head forward a little and press his lips against Erik's. It's a sweet, gentle touch and his friend's lips are welcomingly warm against his. Charles is cold and his face is streaked with dirt and sweat, but Erik doesn't seem to mind. He's still smiling, a warm smile that suits his gaunt face far better than the harsh, raw one Charles usually sees.

Far better than tears would, too.


	5. Chapter three

Chapter 3

Erik falls asleep almost immediately after Charles bullies him into eating half of the sandwich he'd saved. He's told Erik the story of the medic, and this time they both manage a smile, imagining what the man would say at the sight of them tearing the bread into rough pieces and swallowing it down with their filthy hands and fingernails black to the quick.

Erik feels almost too tired to sleep, but he's actually warm for once, and Charles' chest makes quite a good pillow, and before long the world is blurring out of focus and sleep returns, deep and cloying.

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It was a different truck, this one. Instead of canvas, the walls were of wood, boarded and nailed up as though it was transporting cattle instead of people. The boards shake as the truck rattles along, as though a giant had picked it up and was shaking it, heedless of the people inside.

It's everything Charles can do not to be thrown across the truck, and all he can do to stay like this, curled up in a corner, hanging on to the ragged boards. His face burns with tears until he can't see anything, only a dance of dull colour from the lights glinting between the boards. The world turns at impossible angles, and his arms and legs scream with the effort of not falling. The others don't move. The others aren't falling. But the others are dead.

They died in the waking world and they're dead now, but the people he remembers, so vaguely, from his memories. The faceless French prisoners, their language echoing in his ears. They're nothing but shapes on the wall, black shadows he can't even see. Black shadows and the dead bodies.

They don't move when the truck shakes, as though cemented into place. Another twist, the floor of the truck tipping at an impossible angle. Charles wants to close his eyes but can't. His hands slip on the raw wood, sweat slick and unsteady. The blood rushing to his head, the long drop beneath him.

It's quiet here, the shadows' voices a sibilant murmur, their voices too indistinct to hear and Charles too terrified to translate what they're saying. As in his waking memories, they pay him no attention. Just one more grieving boy. His family killed by the SS dogs. Marko's sister killed by the SS men.

Another tilt, and this time he's looking up, daring to relax his grip and gravity hold him firmly against the wall. The shadows move, apparently unconcerned with the impossible angle of the box. Air pounding against his chest, heavy and cloying, hard to breath. His heartbeats feel like hammer blows against his skull.

Then the truck tips again, and he's too slow to catch himself. His hands skid uselessly over the walls, and soon he runs out of wall to hold on to. He's falling, far further and faster than should be possible in the cramped box. He can see the shadows of the people as he flies past them, more than possible. The air refuses to hold him up and he's falling, falling down. The truck and the shadows blur to black and the wind stings his eyes. Then the flames engulf him and he's screaming again. As loudly as he had when the dogs came for him but the flames don't listen. They just burn. Hot and lightless and lifeless and black.

A real scream pulls Charles back

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The hands close around Erik, cold and frighteningly strong. An arm slides under his knees, the other around his back, and the world spins like a top and the blood floods to his head as he's lifted up.

The noise is deafening in contrast to the last few hours. He and Charles only spoke in whispers, and the voices sound unearthly loud. Erik's terrified enough to hear the barking of dogs and the snarl of German orders over the blurred cackle.

It had been night time when they'd been taken from the train. Inside the wagon it was as dark as tar, reminding Erik too much of being buried alive. The cries of the dying and the groans of those driven insane had stopped when the train halted, as though everyone inside was holding their breath. Erik knew he certainly was.

The pain in his arms had died to a dull, draining ache over the last, uncounted hours, and he was able to get up without Charles' assistance. The bolts on the door were drawn back with a scream that sent all their teeth on edge, and the sound the doors made as they were pulled back was like nails on slate.

Then light flooded in and Erik knew, beyond all doubt, that however dreadful and squalid and airless the wagon was, whatever was waiting for them outside was a hundred times worse.

"Aus! Aus!" Came the barked order from outside, followed by the snarling of dogs and the splintering of gunfire. Neither he or Charles could move at first, their backs pressed against the wall of the wagon.

"Schneller!"

Erik remembered the guns, and the SS' smiling face as the soldiers shot his family, and made himself move, walking on legs stiff as stilts. Then, whether due to gratefulness for the help or foresight or just a wish not to face this alone, he reached out an aching arm and pulled Charles out after him.

The world outside was a mad, screaming hell. Guns fired deafeningly and the night was illuminated by glaring searchlights that blinded more than they helped see. Packs of half-wild, half-mad dogs and equally mad men howled and barked and tore and shot at anyone stupid or slow enough to come within reach.

Erik screams again as he is picked up, trying to kick his way free of the strong arms holding him.

There's a muffled curse, and the grip on him tightens which only serves to terrify him further. A hand closes on his outstretched wrist, and Erik twists his head around, eyes wide, half expecting to see his hand caught in the razor jaws of a dog. Instead, it's Charles, looking every bit as frightened as he feels, hanging grimly on to his arm in a desperately futile attempt to stop the stranger from separating them.

The person holding him says something which Erik is too wild with fear to understand, but he recognises the language as German and screams again. His flailing elbow catches the person in the chin, and with a yelp they drop him. The hard floor of the truck comes up to meet him with a crash that shakes his bones and briefly makes the world go even darker.

Charles pulls him against him, and they clutch each other, shaking and staring at the stranger. It's incredibly dark inside the truck, and for a moment the stranger's identity is left entirely to their overactive and terrified imaginations. Charles' hand knot into his shirt tightly enough to tear the worn fabric. Then a lamp is raised and they can see again.

It's woman, dressed in white and with a pinched face that seems yellow in the flickering light. She's frowning and hold a hand to her bleeding lip.

"Oh, can you walk after all?" She growls in English, more to herself than to them.

She receives no answer, but Erik's hands relax a little, he's spotted the red cross armband the woman wears.

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In the lamp's light, Erik's face looks like a skull. The flame hollows his already sunken flesh and paints his skin a sickly yellow, even the lines that appear when he clenches his eyes against the light seem more like cracks on bone than anything else. It's frightening enough for Charles, who knows he doesn't look any better, but it's a shock for the woman. She draws away, her face showing the same expression of horror that Charles saw on the faces of the soldiers who took them from the train. Even though he suspects he'd react the same way if he looked into a mirror, it's depressing to be looked at with such a mixture of shock, disgust and pity.

The woman- a nurse, Charles can see the red cross on her armband- looks around the truck again, then climbs back out. Without the lamp, the track is pitch-black again and for a moment all Charles can see are blue echoes of the light. Pressed up against him, Erik stirs, trying to prop himself up but failing, and Charles feels more than sees the frustration on his face as his arms buckle under him. He shifts, letting his friend lean against his shoulder since he'd probably fall over otherwise if he let go. With his free hand Charles pulls the long coat that had been serving them as bed-covering over his friend's shoulders. Erik's skeletal hands come up, pulling the coat more tightly around him. Charles can feel him shaking, even though it's a warm night, and slides an arm around his shoulders. The coat softens the hard edges of his bones, and is still warm from their bodies. For the first time, Charles realises that they're alone in the truck.

The nurse comes back in, looking distinctly rattled, and followed by an aid. She steps over to them and frowns. "Can you walk?" She asks in German.

He'd never forget the first time he'd heard the language spoken in France, when his family were still alive and searching for Marko's sister in the overcrowded block that served as a concentration camp. The bark of the words, the click of the gun, the growl of the dogs. The cold, sinking feeling inside him, as though the bottom of his stomach had dropped away.

"Anschlag!" Halt!

Even in this place, despite the nurse's soothing tone, the language sounds instantly threatening. Charles can feel the tension in Erik's neck when he looks at her, and the cold clench on fear in his own belly. Jerkily, as though he were answering an SS officer, he shakes his head.

The nurse sighs, and motions to the aid to help her. Charles cries out when she picks Erik up, his voice is thin and ragged in comparison to those outside, but his hand is locked around Erik's wrist and no amount of coaxing can make him let go. The nurse sighs again and motions the aid to pick him up. Together they carry the two of them out of the truck.

The night air is sharp, the sky overcast so that the orange lights illuminating the area are reflected in the clouds. There are army vehicles everywhere, clustering around a large building around which is a wire fence.

Charles feels Erik's nails dig into his arm.

Auschwitz had looked like that, three years ago. They had been at the end of the train, so the first building they saw when they left the wagon was, ironically, the crematorium. It too was huge, and it too had been surrounded with barbed wire. It had been a frightening sight even before they realised what it was, but they'd had more pressing fears. The SS and their dogs rounded up the frightened people like sheep and sent them scurrying towards the gates of the camp. That time it had been his nails drawing the blood from Erik's arm, both of them terrified of being separated from the only person they knew in the chaos.

But even then, it was only when he'd seen the trucks on which they were loading the sick and those too weak to walk that the terror really sank in, because Erik had told him what those trucks were for. They were the same ones in which he and his family had rode, on their way to be shot. And the same would happen here.

He'd been almost right. Only the Germans considered shooting Jews a waste of ammunition, and would gas them instead.

Charles stares up at the building, unable to stop shaking. He knows it is really a hospital, he can see the red cross, but the fear refuses to leave. It is as though someone has strung rails through his mind, and no matter which way he turns, all his thoughts will keep returning to the camps.

One way out. Through the chimney. Even when you were free you couldn't escape, you had to die to forget that place.

Charles' arm is going numb, but he twists his wrist to hold Erik's hand, trying to draw reassurance from that anchor.

It had been easier to bear things with Erik there. Had he been alone Charles had no illusions how long he'd have lasted, between the hunger and the work and the horrific, screaming nightmares which he tried never to think about but which he knew were true. But it wasn't only that. Having someone there made it easier to cope with the humiliation and fear, with the insidious repetition that he deserved this, that this was no more than a deviant like himself should get. After hearing the words for so long part of him had started to believe them, but when he looked at Erik, he knew them for the lies they were. Because he might deserve this, but Erik certainly didn't.

The smell of blood hits them the moment the door is pushed open, rank and horribly familiar. This time it's Erik who clutches at his hand hard enough to hurt.

The hospital in Auschwitz- Birkenau was a twisted joke, but one which had bought them a little time. Charles had studied medicine back in England, and he'd been able to get a place for them there as 'doctors'. Doctors with no medicine or bandages beyond torn rags, and who were little better off than the people they tried to help. But it was safe, inside work, that guaranteed them a food ration actually large enough to live off, and they'd desperately needed it after the week they'd spent in the Strafkommando.

Charles had no idea how he'd been able to convince the Kapo to change his mind. Erik had stolen from him after all. He'd just gone up to the man, all but boiling over with desperation. It was quite literally their last chance, if it failed, then he and Erik would just go to the wire and be done with it. Committing suicide on the electrified fence was better than another week in the Strafkommando.

He'd gone over everything in his memory a hundred times to try to see why the man had agreed, and never found anything. He'd stared at the Kapo, trying through sheer force of will to convince the man to listen to him and agree to transfer them somewhere -anywhere!- else. He'd not so much as opened his mouth before the Kapo had nodded absently and told him they were being sent to work at the hospital. Then his mouth had dropped open even wider that Charles', as though even he couldn't believe what he'd just said either.

Charles hadn't waited for the man to change his mind, he just thanked him and run.

He and Erik are put down on a wooded bench against the wall in what looks like a corridor. Erik immediately curls up as best he can under the coat, as though he were trying to get to sleep although Charles can see that his eyes are open. He shifts over, and lifts Erik's head into his lap, leaning back against the wall. The rough bricks are cold against his back, and he flinches as they dig into an old, unhealed welt on his spine.

The crack as the Kapo's club strikes him on the back, the scream to move faster. There must have been an edge to the club, or perhaps the sadistic Kapo had hammered a nail in it, because when Erik took a look at the wound at the end of the day, the shirt he peeled back was soaked with blood.

The building looks like it might have been a chapel at some point, or perhaps a school. High ceilings with pointed arches like that of the English university Charles visited just before his stepfather dragged them off to France to look for his missing sister. Despite the electric lights strung up everywhere, it still looks unearthly beautiful, especially compared to the places Charles has seen since then.

Birkenau was nothing more than row upon row of barracks, sheds meant for horses and now used for people. The tallest building was the one everyone hoped never to visit- the crematorium. Everything was filthy and bloody and covered in the ash that constantly belched from the chimney- which Charles tried not to think about.

Belsen was even worse, a squat collection of huts in a sea of dirt. Order had long since evaporated before he and Erik had arrived, and even the barbed wire looked tatty and rusted- although just as imposing a barrier, over which trees stood tall and dead.

Here though, despite the smell of blood, everything is clean, the floor covered in rushes and sand. Charles is suddenly conscious of their own squalid state. They'd never really had the chance to clean themselves in Auschwitz, in Belsen it was hard enough to find water for drinking, let alone washing, and the conditions in the train had been vile. His clothes are stiff with dirt and filth and blood, and Erik's are even worse. He's lost his shoes at some point; something that still shoots a bolt of fear through him- in the camps, if you lost your shoes, you were dead- and the boots Erik had found in Auschwitz are falling to pieces.

Charles can't hold back a smile, it feels surreal to worry about what he looks like after this long. He pulls his shirt straight where it had been slipping over one shoulder, it had been too large even when he'd gotten it, and now it looks ridiculous.

It had been the first thing Erik had stolen for him. The other boy had taken his shirt with the pink triangle on it, and slipped away in the crowded barracks. It was a regulation that you had to sleep without it, and a few moment later Erik scurried back, holding a much larger shirt with the Jewish star on it. "If they ask," Erik had said shortly in German, "You're my brother."

He didn't know if Erik thought that Charles would be safer from the other prisoners if they thought he was Jewish, or if he wanted them to be able to keep a low profile or if he just wanted to make sure they would not be split up, but either way, Charles had absolutely no doubt that having that shirt had saved his life on numerous occasions. He had seen what had happened to other prisoners who were branded with that pink triangle.

The footsteps are softened by the rushes on the floor, but Charles can hear them, his head snapping up instinctively to see what this new danger is. He reaches over to wake Erik, but there's no need, his friend is, even in this state, more alert than he is.

It's the nurse again, dabbing at her swollen lip with a piece of cotton wool, and the aid that carried Charles into the hospital. In the brighter lights of the hospital they look tired, and the nurse sighs a third time when she sees them. "Well, we're not going to get anywhere unless we take them to be checked over first," she snaps in English, and Charles is struck by her heavy American accent, it's surprisingly soothing and reminds him of his grandmother. She lived -lives, Charles corrects himself; as far as he knows, she's still alive- in Westchester, and they used to visit her when his father was still alive, before his mother remarried and moved away and his father's family cut them off completely. This nurse has the same kind of accent.

If anything completes the alien picture, it's this reminder. The change from his life in America to the camps was so sudden that when he looks back it's like remembering a previous life. He knows that it wasn't that way for Erik, the transition was slower, and he probably doesn't see it the same way. But for Charles, it quite literally feels like one moment he was a gifted schoolboy studying at Harvard at fifteen and with bright hopes for Oxford, and the next, he was locked in a stifling cattle-cart, on his way to his own death.

If he had though about the change, he wouldn't have been able to cope, Erik or no Erik. Instead he'd cut off all memories of his 'previous life' and believed the lie he had to lead. Charles Xavier had died with his parents at the teeth of the SS dogs, he was Charles Lehnsherr, Erik's brother and only one of thousands trapped in Auschwitz.

The reminder of his old life is not pleasant, and only throws into starker contrast everything that's happened since then. It hurts.

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The aid nods, "Shall I tell them?" Her accent's odd, and reminds Erik a little of Charles', although he can't place it.

The nurse rolls her eyes, "Try English, they don't seem to like it if you talk German."

The aid turns to them, "We-" she points at herself and them- "are going to go-" She mimes walking- "to see the doctor." She points over her shoulder at a door at the end of the corridor.

Even Erik is smiling by the time she finishes. After three years with Charles, he can speak English quite well enough to understand what they are saying, and having this woman mime something he understands is just the ultimate absurdity in what has been a very strange evening. Without thinking, he slides from the bench and tries to stand up.

His legs don't even hold him up for a moment, crumpling under him the moment he puts any weight on them, and he ends up on the floor.

He remembered the look on Charles' face, no more than a few weeks ago, when he tried to rise from the bunk they shared and his legs simply refused to hold him. He'd been sick before- they'd both been stricken with typhoid fever back in Auschwitz- but he'd always been able to get up and struggle through the day. If you couldn't work, you couldn't live. And even here in Belsen- where there was no work but just a vague idea on the part of the SS guards to keep everyone here until they either starved or typhus killed them all- if he couldn't get up, he couldn't get food; either legitimate or stolen.

And it meant he was a lot sicker than he'd let himself believe. He had deliberately ignored the red rash on his chest and splitting headaches he got whenever he went out, and convinced himself it was just a fever.

The look of horror on Charles' face when he fell is one he'll never forget, it was the same as the one on his own face. They were so close. They could practically hear the English guns, they only had to hang on for a little longer and it would be over, the German resistance would break and they would be rescued, saved at long last. To go for so long only to fall at the last hurdle. He'd nearly screamed.

The aid bends down and picks him up with a not-quite repressed shudder, probably thinking about dirt on her lovely white uniform. He tries not to struggle, but it's hard. The nurse follows with Charles and Erik cranes his head back to look at his friend, trying to make up with eye contact what they can't through touch.

The aid doesn't knock at the door, just pushing it open with her foot and walking in.

The doctor is a thin, grey man with a face lined with tiredness, he wears a white coat and matching gloves.

Mengele wore gloves like that. Erik will never forget that detail because of all the myriad of deaths in Auschwitz, he feared the one at the hands of the camp doctor the most. They saw him at the hospital sometimes, and whenever he came in Erik would almost always drop whatever he was holding, his hands shook so much. He had heard of the man's fascination with inmates with 'unnatural powers', and the experiments he carried out on them. They held a horror that eclipsed even that of the gas chambers. There, they could only kill you, and death is fast. At Mengele's hands death would be slow, drawn out, and terrifying. The worse Erik could imagine would be not to die at all, but to survive, in a fog of agony as a twisted horror deliberately kept from the mercy of death by the doctor.

He remembered how, in the woods where he was to be shot, not one of the bullets had hit him, even though the Nazis were firing at point-blank range and everyone else had been hit repeatedly. If Mengele were ever to hear of this, it would be the end. He was registered under his real name, so there would be no escaping were that information ever to come to light.

He wasn't the only one in danger either. He wasn't about to forget the 'dreams' Charles had suffered from when they'd first arrived at the camp, and if someone were to tip off the 'Angel of Death' that one of the workers at the hospital had gone into convulsions at the exact moment that a whole transport had been gassed… It made Erik sick to think about it.

He watches the doctor warily, as they're put down on an identical bench to the one they left- Charles helps him to sit up, leaning against him- but the man just sighs when he sees them.

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The doctor grumbles "God, kids as well?" under his breathbefore glancing at the nurse, "Are these the last two?"

The nurse nods, and the doctor turns to them, "Do you speak English?" He speaks slowly and clearly.

Erik doesn't move, watching the doctor with a wary look, so Charles nods guardedly. The doctor sighs, "Well, that's something at least," He turns back to the nurse, "Check if the water's ready, and see if we have any spare clothes that might fit them."

Charles lifts his feet on the bench and rubs them, the building may be beautiful, but it is cold and his feet are bare. He wishes he'd had the sense to bring the blanket from the truck.

The aid and nurse leave, and doctor addresses them; like the nurse, he sounds American. "I know you're afraid, but this is a Red Cross hospital, and no one's going to hurt you here. You're perfectly safe, and we'll have you clean and dressed properly in no time. I just want to have a look at you and take care of anything that might be wrong."

Might be wrong? In other circumstances, Charles might smile. He can barely walk, is covered in cuts and sores, and sometimes feels so hungry that his bones might just tear through his skin. The doctor has a gift for understatement.

Despite this, he hesitates when the doctor asks for them to get undressed, the room is chilly, and he is cold enough with them on. Beside him, Erik sends him a quizzical look, and Charles has a feeling he didn't understand what they were being asked. His English isn't brilliant, and the doctor's accent is heavy.

He remembered when the situation had been reversed, when it had been him asking Erik what was being said, only he had received a blow to the shoulder for a nearby Kapo as an answer. It was the first 'selection' they had been in since they had arrived at Birkenau. Erik had quickly hissed that they were to get undressed in front of the camp doctor, who would decided whether or not they would keep working. "And if not?" He'd asked.

The prisoner behind them answered, nodding at the window where the crematorium chimney was smoking. Erik had gone pale, and Charles knew why. His shoulders were still a mass of yellow-green bruising from the SS torturers.

Charles shakes off the memory- _Not like that. Not here- _and pulls off his thin jacket. Erik looks from him to the doctor, who smiles and nods.

His tired fingers slip on the buttons, and eventually Charles just gives up and pulls the shirt over his head, hissing in pain as the movement tears open old wounds where the clotted blood had stuck to the cloth. He manages to lift his hips and pulls off his trousers, tossing everything to the floor in a pile of stinking striped cloth. He's had to strip so many times in front of others that he completely ignores the doctor and turns to help Erik with his own clothes.

"The coat too." The doctor prompts, seeing Charles wrap the relatively clean garment around them for warmth. "it's probably full of lice, we'll disinfect it along with you."

Charles catches Erik's expression when the doctor says that- a dreadful, ghastly grin. The doctor probably has no idea of the connotations of what he just said, but it sounds horribly ironic to the two of them; in the camps, people sent to the gas were often told it was nothing more than a delousing procedure.

If the doctor sees their reaction, he ignores it as the nurse and aid come in, the nurse with a bundle of clothing, the aid with a large basin of water and two towels that look as though they've already been used once already.

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Erik feels as though the room is spinning, the nausea crawling up his throat again and the lights burning his eyes. He sends Charles a pleading look, if he stays sitting up much longer, he's going to throw up, but if he tries to lie down by himself, he'll most likely fall off the bench.

Charles' hands feel freezing cold when he touches him, the world tilts dangerously and he feels another set of hands- the nurse's- help him lie down. The wooden slats hurt his back, but it's better than sitting up. The world slowly stops revolving, and he slides off into sleep again.

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"How long has he been sick?" The doctor asks, riffling through a selection of medical instruments that Charles can't see and in truth doesn't want to see. For a medical student, he's lost any appetite he ever had for operations and their tools.

It was the one time he'd seen what Mengele worked on. Sometimes they received some of his victims in the hospital, the ones everyone avoided and Charles tried desperately not the think about. But this time he saw exactly what the 'Angel of Death' did to those unfortunate enough to fall into his grasp.

There were two girls- identical twins- sewn together in a twisted parody of Siamese twins lying dead by the door next to him- the failure he was meant to take to the crematorium. The doctor himself was working on a tall, skinny figure - Charles couldn't tell if it was male or female- covered in green scales and with webbed hands. It was strapped to the operating table and Mengele had cut the chest open and appeared to be examining the internal organs. Charles wasn't too sure what the creature was or what the SS doctor was looking for; and nor did he ever know, because at that moment he saw the creature's hand move, and saw that their heart was still beating, and in order not to throw up he grabbed the unfortunate girls' bodies and ran.

Even to his own ears, his voice is almost unrecognisable when he speaks, "Three weeks."

The doctor nods, "And the medic told me he gave him a vaccine, correct?"

Charles nodded, he has no idea what the man gave Erik, but it seemed to have worked so he supposes it was.

"Well, there's not much more I can do for him. If he's lasted this long, he should pull through. I'll give him another dose now, and if his condition worsens we'll continue."

Charles watches the doctor as the man cleans his instruments and prepares the injection. He knows the man only wants to help, but he can barely remember how to give trust and certainly not to a complete stranger. He flinches as the needle slides into Erik's arm, and his friend growls in his sleep. The plunger is pushed down, the needle withdrawn, and a pad pressed to his thin arm.

The fears return. _Poison. _His mind whispers. _Diseases, death._ So many people have tried to kill them that he doesn't know how to trust anyone any more.

He hadn't been like that to begin with, if it wasn't for Erik, he would have gullibly fallen for one of the 'games' bored SS played on them. Games, like the games a hungry cat would play with a mouse. Tricks, they were told to do something that they would be shot for, and killed anyway if they disobeyed.

A call for people to line up to be sent to a 'special unit', which Erik had dragged him away from. This was the 'heaven sent' he'd hissed to him, eyes slits of anger at Charles, nothing more than a role call of who would like to be killed today.

He'd had to forget how to trust anyone but his friend because anyone else could and would kill them.

But they are safe, Charles' mind whispers. He shivers as the nurse brings a bucket and helps him wash, stripping off the dirt that feels like it's been there for years. This is a Red Cross hospital, and as the doctor said, no one would hurt them. People don't behave like Nazis in the real world, they behave like good decent people.

He had to believe that, or else it would mean that they might as well be back in Auschwitz.


	6. Part two, Chapter one

Part 2

Chapter 1

The hospital is strung through with spider's webs of barbed wire, and searchlights beam down from the fences that are now the walls. It's empty, but there are shadows on the floor. The beds are twisted pits with canisters of gasoline next to them, and Erik wants to turn away so as not to see the blackened bones inside them. The tables are spread white and covered in bone saws and scalpels and flesh knives. The cloth is stained with blood, but the tools are well oiled and glistening. They seem too big for the tables holding them, and even the scalpels are big enough to cut him in half.

He wants to run, but the air's like water, and even walking is almost impossible, each step taking a tremendous effort. He's trying to get out of the door, but it's taking too long and the doctor steps out from behind it. It's the hospital doctor but he's wearing a paper mask that makes him look like Mengele, and the seams of his gloves are razor-sharp.

Erik tries to scream, he can feel the air leaving his lungs, but it never reaches his mouth. He tries to run, but no matter how much he runs he can't move. Charles walks out from behind the doctor, he's smiling and wearing one of the white coats the hospital orderlies wear, only the cross has the broken arms of a swastika and the red is bleeding out into the coat.

"It's okay." He says, he reaches out and Erik can see he's wearing the same gloves as the doctor. "They just want to take your number down, and then we'll take our masks off." Erik suddenly realises Charles is also wearing a mask, only it's made of cardboard and it makes him look as though he's smiling, even though his lips aren't moving.

The doctor picks up a scalpel from the table next to him, and a takes a clipboard from Charles. He writes something with the scalpel and looks at Erik expectantly. But when Erik lifts his sleeve his arm's covered in numbers, blue all the way round and he doesn't know where to start. He looks desperately at the doctor, then back down at his arm. His eyes can't seem to focus and he can't read the numbers, only a blur of blue and white.

Then the doctor leans over impatiently and has a look at the blurry mess. He sighs. "I need your number." He says coldly in Mengele's voice.

"You should give it to him," Charles puts in, and Erik can hear the fear in his voice, even though his mask keeps smiling.

Erik tries to say, I can't, but the words get lost on the way to his mouth. He looks back down at his arm.

The doctor reaches over and touches Erik's arm with one hand. The seam cuts through his skin like a knife through paper as the doctor firmly carves 29338 into his skin. This time the scream makes it to his throat and he cries out.

-Shut him up-

"There, was that so difficult?" The doctor turns to write something on his clipboard, and when he turns around Erik can see that he isn't wearing a mask- it's his real face.

Terrified, he looks at Charles, but he's lying slumped against the wall. The mask has cut an obscenely wide smile across his face, and the cardboard is soggy with blood.

He screams again and turns to run-

-he's waking the others-

-But it's like running through water, and his legs won't work, starting to crumple under him, like they have so often done lately. His hands scrabble on the tiled floor and he can't seem to stop screaming-

-If he won't be quiet, we'll have to give him morphine, you know that?-

Then the doctor grabbed him from behind and started to shake him and shake him and shake him…

Erik's eyes open, and his body twitches violently as consciousness abruptly returns, as though it wants to jump off the mattress. He doesn't, and for a moment he thinks he's still dreaming, being held still by the air. But no. He's lived with the trembling weakness in his limbs long enough that he can't mistake it for anything else.

The hands holding him are Charles', and behind him Erik sees the nurse and two orderlies. The sight of them makes him start, the memories of his dream coming back with a vengeance. But they're not wearing masks, and they're not Mengele, and although his arm is still aching in ghost-pain it's quickly fading. The staff are glaring at him, he frowns back, and hears them say something to Charles which he can't understand before leaving.

It's been almost two weeks since they arrived at the hospital, the first few days passing in the same thick, feverish haze as the ones before. Bits and pieces to recollect. Waking up at strange times, only able to judge the hour by the varying quality of light filtering through the window above the bed. The texture of a food that had no taste. The sting of a needle inside his arm. The warmth and sharp edges of Charles curled up against him.

Then the fog had slowly cleared, revealing the ward in which he and Charles once again shared a bed due to the overcrowding. The white-washed walls and ceiling which were all he could see, without the strength to sit up and look through the window. He'd lie there, watching the spiders spin their webs across the ceiling and listen to Charles describe what was happening outside. The hospital is used for wounded soldiers, but most of the army is camped outside. Charles described the small village of tents that crowd next to the hospital walls, and the soldiers walking to and fro.

They've mostly left now, and by the time the sound of the grinding trucks reached them, Erik had been able to look out and see for himself. The food might be tasteless and the injections painful but they do work, and with Charles' help he can sit up without wanting to be sick or getting too dizzy.

He's in no mood to look out now though. The voices from his nightmare keep echoing in his ears, and despite the sleep, he still feels exhausted. His body still aches, even though it feels like he hasn't moved for weeks- which, he reminds himself, he hasn't- and he feels his muscles complain as he stretches out on the old hospital bed, turning on his side and pressing his cheek into the cool fabric of the pillow. The blankets are rough and the sheets full of holes, but they're clean and warm and after sleeping on straw covered boards for three years, even the lumpy mattress feels wonderful.

There wasn't room to stretch out in the bunks, not with three other people to compete with for space. His back would ache from the hard boards and his arms would be stiff and he would long to be able to turn over. But if he did, he would force Charles out, or one of the other two people crushed in on his left. The blankets were ancient ones once used for horses, and so thick with lice they seemed to move by themselves.

He hears Charles sigh, and feels the mattress dip a little as his friend resettles himself on the edge of the bed, next to him. Technically he shouldn't be out of bed, but the hospital is so understaffed that he has to get their meals rather than having them brought to them. It takes an enormous effort for Erik to sit up, leaning back against the wall, the iron headboard of the bed digging into the small of his back. Charles sits at the other end and hands him his share of breakfast.

In the ghetto, meals had been erratic, relying on how much he and his siblings could steal. It was invariably poor and although they were better off than many in Warsaw, it was one of the reasons his parents had left the ghetto for the Nazi's lies.

In the camps they usually got one or two meals a day, thin soup and a scraps of bread, and anything they dared to steal. Later on even those meals stopped and they'd had to fight to get anything at all.

Or Charles had to fight, Erik reminds himself cruelly. I just lay there uselessly while he risked his life for me, as I'm lying uselessly now. Erik forces the thought away. There have never been debts between them, and he certainly isn't going to start counting them now. He looks down at his bowl, frowning.

It doesn't look very different from what they'd been given in the camps, a thin, grey gruel with all the taste of cardboard. The only improvement is that they get larger portions and are actually getting three regular meals a day for the first time since Erik can remember.

The hunger. That was something he would always remember. Even after meals when they had been able to scrounge enough to feel better, it was still there, a gnawing reminder. Then the nausea would set in and it was all they could do not to be sick and lose what they'd been able to force down

It feels almost painful to eat now, trying to adjust to eating normally after so long.

He nods over to where the orderlies left, "What did they want?" His voice is still slightly raw, but better than before, and it no longer hurts to speak. He swallows a mouthful of the porridge, the one good thing about the food was that unlike nearly everything else he's had to eat in the last few years, he doesn't get the urge to throw it up immediately afterwards.

"The same as ever." Charles sighs, "Just because we've been through… what we've been through," He stumbles over the words and Erik frowns when Charles averts his eyes, "Doesn't mean we have the right to wake the whole hospital when we have nightmares."

Charles' voice sounds better too, and has lost the harsh rasp that marked it for the first few days they spent here. He looks better too, Erik decides, probably they both do, but he hasn't seen a mirror in several years and doesn't know what he looks like any more. He still feels as thin as before, although the hunger's slowly vanishing. Charles looks much the same, and sitting cross-legged as he is just emphasises the way his bones stick out, but at least they're both able to wash regularly and have clean clothes. Charles wears a pair of army trousers much too large for him, turned up several times at the ankle and tied around his waist with string, and a loose jacket who's hood he keep pulled up over his bare head.

He did sometimes wonder what had happened to Charles to make him lose his hair, they all had their hair shaved off when they arrived at the camp, and at regular intervals after that, but one day Charles' had just stopped growing back. No one had any idea why, and Erik rather envied him. The barbers at Auschwitz tended to be the best liars and bribers rather than the best at cutting hair. The job got you an extra ration of soup and those who got it generally got it through bribing a Kapo. This meant that it ended up being quite a bloody job.

Erik rubs the side of his head where he'd once been badly nicked, he can feel the shallow groove through the spikes of his slowly growing hair.

"If they can come up with a remedy for nightmares," Erik retorts, "I will take it. Otherwise-" He shrugs and takes another mouthful.

Charles sighs. Erik doesn't think much of the other people in the hospital, despite the fact that they are from the same army that rescued them from the train. The hospital is incredibly crowded, but Charles for one doesn't mind. It means he has an excuse to share the bed with Erik, and after so long he doesn't think he'll ever be able to sleep alone again.

He's not sure he should anyway, if he has any more of those dreams- He bites the thought off. This is a hospital, not Auschwitz. If he has another dream, what's the worse he could see?

If he'd known about the dreams at first, Charles doesn't know how he would have been able to sleep in Auschwitz, although he didn't have to be asleep to have them.

He'll never forget the first one. It had been the middle of the night, in the first few months since they had first arrived, soon after they'd been sent from the main camp to Birkenau. He was tired, cripplingly tired but something was pulling him back to consciousness, and all the problems and pains that entailed. It came again, not something to do with him, but something around him. A crash and rattle and roar from somewhere close by, and a vibration that shook the bunks. Charles felt himself start to slip, and scrabbled with the filthy blanket, trying to avoid falling out.  
An arm emerged from the stinking cover and wrapped around Charles' waist, pulling him back in and yanking him close to another body. A brief flash of light from the barrack's high window lit up Erik's face, all angles and sharp edges, his eyes glittering.

"Be careful." He whispered, relaxing his hold but not moving away. He couldn't. There were two other people crammed up behind him.  
The noise had woken most of the barrack, and now the whisper went around- 'Just a transport, go back to sleep'- quietly so as not to attract the attention of the Kapo.

'Just another transport.' Charles thought bleakly, resting his head on his bundled clothes. Just a few thousand more poor souls sent off to be murdered. Go back to sleep.

Charles closed his eyes, next to him, he could hear Erik's breathing slow as his friend fell asleep. What was there to do? Nothing but sleep. All the same, it was a long time before he sank back to his dreams.

And what strange dreams they were.

It was dark, and the noise was deafening. The voices went on and on, the emotions screaming even louder. Fear. Dread. Shock. Desperate hope. Worry. Where are we? Where are they taking us? Where is my husband? Where are my children? Where is my mother? Why did they take them away? Why aren't they coming with us to the showers?

The showers…

With a jolt, Charles' own mind reasserted itself. Not showers. He knew the truth of those 'showers', those that swallowed whole families and belched their ashes through the chimney. The showers who bled gas rather than water. The showers that the Nazis sent all those they didn't want, who couldn't work. The old, the women, the children.

Somehow the voices heard him, and began screaming. Hope vanished like a spark snuffed out and terror set in. Charles felt their panic, their fear, He felt them start to struggle, and it was his fists which struck out to fight his way free, and his flesh which the fists landed on. It was his throat which shrieked and his ears which hurt from the din. He heard the shots and his skin crawled a thousand times over at the sound of the barking dogs as the SS tried to restore order, forcing the people along the path and down the steps. More shots, and God, it was his finger pulling the trigger, and his pain when the bullet struck home. A young man, old enough to work but crippled in one hand. Charles had felt him cry out when he realized they were being led to their deaths, felt him fight and scream and shout for his younger sister, lost in the throng, felt the bullet as it passed through his chest and his mind winked out.  
Felt death.

The door closed, and Charles heard it lock even as his hands turned the bolt. The screams were stifled in the small space. Some were crying, others hammering on the door. His tears, his sobs, his bleeding fists. They were all still dressed.  
The Sonderkommando will have a long job this morning. Charles thought.

Again, they heard him, but this time the panic proved short lived. There was a clinking above their heads and for the moment the panic ebbed. It sounded like the sound of hot water through cold pipes. Perhaps, the thoughts echoed, they were wrong? That this was not the death they had feared?

Charles saw through a hundred eyes as they looked up at the showerheads, felt the hundredfold sense of expectation. He heard the sounds of the fragments of poison when they fell from the slot in the ceiling and hit the tiled floor of the 'showers', the hiss as the gas reacted with the air, and saw the formless mist start to fill the room.

The screams were as much in his mind as in the air, and Charles thought his head would split in half from the sheer terror contained in it. It was so loud, so terrible, that it woke him up.

His eyes opened. The barrack was still once again, the inhabitants grabbing as much sleep as they could before the coming day. But how could they? Still the scream went on and on. He could feel his body being crushed as others tried to climb above the gas to reach the air. He could taste the acrid burn of it on his tongue, and felt his lungs scream as he breathed it in. But at the same time he could feel bodies beneath his feet, his hands scratching themselves bloody on the wall in a desperate attempt to climb higher still.

And here and there the voices were dying, mental shields rising and winking out one by one as the gas filled their lungs. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe! Charles twisted aside, trying to get away, his lungs spasmed, trying to snatch in one last gasp of air. He turned, thrashed, and nearly fell out of the bunk. As if from a distance he felt Erik grab him and drag him back into the bed, pinning him down as he convulsed. Why? He'd thought Erik was his friend. They looked after each other but now he was holding him down, letting the gas fill his lungs and strip away his life, He could feel them, one by one flickering and going out as first consciousness then life fled. Erik! I'm dying! Help me! The words didn't come, yet they did. A scream in his mind almost loud enough to wake the dead.

Almost.

He couldn't breathe, his mind felt foggy. The pain was blinding, he couldn't see, he couldn't think of anything but the pain. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe!

Death, when it came, was a blessing.

Charles sucked in a lungful of air. It was stuffy, sticky and foul, and it was the sweetest thing he'd ever experienced. He drew in another, then another. Then he opened his mouth and started to scream.

Almost immediately a hand was slapped over his mouth, cutting him of in mid-cry. The terror of suffocation returned full force and Charles kicked out wildly, hands flailing. He bit the hand and heard a yelp as it was snatched back, and again he started to scream, twisting to get away from the hands trying to pin him down.

"For God's sake shut him up!" Someone shouted.

Hands closed on him, pushing him onto his front and burying his face into the tangle of clothing that serves as a pillow. His screams were stifled to a sob; they were pushing him down to die! Forcing him back down into the gas. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe!

Yes. You can.

The words whispered in the back of his mind, spoken- insanely- in Erik's voice. Abruptly, Charles stopped struggling and lifted his head. Erik was sitting next to him, eyes wide and one hand on the back of his neck.

He has no idea why it had been Erik's voice he'd heard, but he's re-lived this dream many times in his sleep, and it often was because of this that the orderlies threaten him with morphine. It's a hollow threat, Charles knows, the orderlies wouldn't be able to get anyone- nurse or doctor- to approve it but Erik doesn't take well to it, and it's the main reason he's not on particularly friendly terms with the staff. Charles suspects it's because his friend can't wholly believe that the threat is a false one.

He doesn't know how he's supposed to convince Erik that they're safe, he's having enough trouble convincing himself. It doesn't feel safe here, although perhaps because he'd forgotten what that feels like.

He'd believed he was safe with his family, until he'd seen them torn apart before his eyes. He's believed they were safe in the camp, before he saw the smoke rising from the crematorium. He'd thought that they were safe when they were working, before he'd seen one who shared their bunk beaten to death for losing his cap. He'd thought they were safe in their barracks, before he'd seen the SS storm in and shoot two men for stealing bread. One by one he'd lost those illusions and now the only place he could feel even remotely safe was in Erik's arms.

And if they'd stayed in the camps much longer, he had no doubt he'd have seen just how hollow that particularly comfort was too.

He knows what Charles is thinking. He had thought the same too, once upon a time. He'd believed the Nazi lies about 'resettlement', and felt a deep, desperate hope of leaving the ghetto for something better. He'd hoped, and believed in that hope. And then he'd been surprised when it led him and his family to being shot. Erik flinches away instinctively from the thought, then forces himself to examine it. It happened. It was real. He has to look at it because maybe if he looks at it long enough, it'll stop hurting, and because it was part of Charles' 'real life', however much his friend would like to deny it.

'They don't do things like that in real life'. Charles had insisted, so many times. He believed it, believed that what was happening to them was somehow separate from reality, and if it hadn't been Charles saying this, Erik would have gotten angry. He doesn't know if he can still get angry at Charles, only resigned. What had happened to their families was real, not some sick dream. What had- was- happening to them was all too real.

Erik leans over the side of the bed and places his bowl on the floor. His head spins when he sits back up, and he hugs his knees, watching Charles. He's staring out of the window, watching the army start to move off. He believes in that army, Erik doesn't have to see the painfully hopeful expression on his face to know that. He really believes that they're here to help them. The good guys. Erik remembers that he used to believe that too.

How often had he and Charles lain in their bunk, in Auschwitz and later in Belsen, and drawn up dreams in their minds of rescue. The British and American armies riding down to free them and kill the guards and burn the whole place to the ground. Imagining the relief until they could almost feel it. Talking about how it would feel to be free, to be safe. What it would like to eat real food, to sleep in a proper bed, to be able to go out without fearing that they would be shot. Then their voices would trail off, because they couldn't see beyond that. Erik's whole family was dead, and the members of Charles' who still lived wanted nothing to do with him. They had nowhere to go. Then they'd try and forget about it and go back to the rescue, how it would feel not to fear any more.

It hadn't happened that way, and Erik isn't about to pretend, as Charles is, that everything will be fine. Charles wants to believe it so much that he blinds himself to everything that suggests otherwise. When he has nightmares and wakes screaming about the gas and the flames, and the orderlies threaten to sedate him, he brushes it off as an idle remark. Charles is the student of medicine, not Erik, but even he knows that morphine in their condition is a death sentence. The orderlies might not be serious about the threat, but it's tantamount to threatening to shoot them. He wonders if Charles would excuse their behaviour if that happened. Probably. It was only when the SS actually shot someone in front of him that he himself realised the truth about

He has to constantly remind himself that they're not going to be shot here, or starved, or beaten. He'll believe that, but believing that they're safe is another matter. It's an illusion he can't allow himself to believe in, and he wishes Charles wouldn't either. It's only setting him in line for a disappointment when it'll inevitably shatter. He hopes Charles won't have too far to fall when it does, and that he'll be there to pick him up.

It's very quiet at the hospital, now the army outside has left, for which Charles is very thankful. Most of the wounded have been moved to the empty tents outside and the ward is more empty than it's been since they came here. There's nothing to do but sleep, which on a half-way decent bed and with Erik for company is no trial. It's quiet now, and the sun is starting to set. The light paints the walls red, and Charles idly imagines drawing black marks on them to serve as a sundial to mark the hours.

The growl of an engine breaks the silence, and Charles feels Erik stir next to him. It shows how far he still has to recover that he doesn't wake, only murmuring something in his sleep.

Charles wonders if it would be worth the effort to sit up and look out, and decides against it. He's too tired. It's strange that he feels so tired, when all he's done is lie in bed all day, but since he feels like he's spent the last three years in a permanent state of exhaustion, perhaps it's not surprising.

Even in summer, it would still be dark when the bell would start screaming, he could never get used to it, and it had become almost become routine to feel a deep stab of hatred towards that instrument for waking him from his dreams. It had become routine to get up without feeling what he was doing, and pull on his clothes without feeling them either. The barrack was so dark he might as well be doing this sleepwalking, and sometimes he wished he was, anything to snatch a few more moments of peace.

He's almost joined Erik in sleep when the doors open. The ward is long and narrow, and the doors behind them so Charles has to crane his head to see. It's the same two orderlies as before, helping a third man. The light's fading and Charles is still slightly asleep, so it's only when the man reaches the bed across from them- and in full view of the light- that he recognises the striped uniform of a camp inmate and the red triangle denoting a political prisoner.

The orderlies leave, and the man looks at Charles. His face is emaciated and covered in black stubble, and he's smiling. "You from the camps too?" he grates in bad German.

Charles nods warily. It's painful to fear this man, particularly here, but it's been ground into him for so long it's almost second nature.

them

It takes all Charles' will to force a smile back at the man, while wondering at the back of his mind how many people this man put to death so he could be here now. The same number as I killed, he answers himself silently.

"Dachau?" The man questions.

Charles blinks at the unfamiliar word, "What?"

"Dachau, did you come from the camp at Dachau?"

"Oh," _God, how many of these places are there?_ "No, we didn't." He looks down at Erik and lowered his voice, not wanting to wake his friend. "Auschwitz." He wishes the man would just shut up or go away, it's not something he wants to talk about. It's not something he wants to _think_ about.

"Ah." A silence, "Did the _Amerikaner_ free you?"

"From the train."

Not many had made it out of the train, he'd overheard the doctor talking to some of the soldiers about it, and out of the dozen or so people who had been in the army truck with them, only two others had survived.

Stop it.

"Ah."

Shut up.

"So they freed you, and stopped the Germans, yes?"

Charles nods cautiously.

The man turns, and Charles can see the blood staining his shirt. He's smiling at the ceiling as if recalling something pleasant. "Did they shoot them?"


	7. Interlude

Interlude

Erik?

Hmm?

The American army freed another camp, not far from here.

Oh. yawn Good.

They'll be bringing the people here, they're talking about moving some of us to the tents the army left when we're better.

More space I expect, just as long as they're not bringing the SS prisoners here.

Erik.

Hmm?

They shot them.

Who?

The SS.

another yawn Good.

How can you say that?

Because it is. Good.

They were prisoners of war.

So were we, and we were civilians too, it didn't stop _them_.

They were supposed to take them prisoner, not shoot them.

I don't care, they deserved it.

silence The Nazis thought we deserved it.

Did we?

silence No.

Did they?

silence

Answer the question Charles.

They should have been taken prisoner, and put on trial.

That's not an answer.

I don't care, it's what's right.

And if they _had_ been put on trial, what would have happened?

silence They would have been hung.

And they'd have deserved that.

silence Yes.

So what's the difference?

What are you trying to prove?

You can be quite a hypocrite, Charles, how can you defend these people? You _know _what they're like!

miserable silence

What would have been better? Not to shoot them and risk that they'd get away and kill even more people? Because they would have.

Erik… please don't.

Please don't do what?

Be right.

sigh I'll stop being right when the world stops proving me right, and since that is never going to happen, I am _not_ losing sleep over a few dead SS. Go to sleep Charles.

silence

Charles…

silence

Charles.

silence

Come here.

sigh

I'm sorry.

It's not your fault, Erik, you didn't kill them.

But I would have.

Please don't say that.

Why not? It's true.

Just don't.

silence You'd have killed them too.

Erik. Don't.

You would have, and they wouldn't be the first people we'd have killed. Only _they_ would have deserved it.

Please.

It's a war, people die. A lot of people died in that transport too.

They killed the SS there too.

Really?

I heard gunshots. I didn't know what they were shooting until now. Who.

You can't possibly feel sorry for them.

Do you think they were fighting back?

Do you think I care? What were they supposed to do with them? Bring them here? Would you have liked that?

silence Stop being right.

If they were going to hang anyway- and don't say they didn't deserve it.

I wasn't. They did.

Then what are you talking about?

Nothing. Just… be quiet. I want to sleep.


	8. Part two, Chapter two

Chapter 2

The survivors of Dachau arrive the next day, and the hospital rings with the sound of the newcomers all day. It's only when night falls that a measure of peace returns. It's the nearest hospital to the camp and even though most of the soldiers in the hospital have left, it's once again very crowded, and Erik suspects that they will be soon asked to leave the cramped building and take over the tents the army left behind. He doesn't mind as much as he thought he might. The weather's warm, and at least they won't have to be so afraid of being seen together.

He had never particularly cared about the specifics of their relationship. Homosexuality was not something he'd even heard of until Charles explained it to him- the problems of living in a fairly isolated town, Erik supposed. So far the only people he'd met who he'd seen disagreeing with it were the Nazis, and since they also seemed to disagree with Erik's basic right to breathe, he was going to ignore them on both counts.

He expects it would have probably bothered him more had they met in different circumstances, but in a place where he saw people dying every day, and in which it took nothing short of a miracle to survive himself, he saw no point in trying to borrow more trouble in worrying about what was between Charles and himself.

Even though he's silent, Erik is close enough to feel Charles' sigh, his friend is rolled over on his side, facing away from him, and hasn't spoken since their last conversation, although Erik feels quite sure he hasn't slept.

He has to hold back a sigh of his own, staring at the back of his friend's head in irrepressible irritation. He knows _why_ Charles was upset, just like he also knows perfectly well that it had nothing to do with the dead SS. Charles had hated- still hated- those monsters in human flesh just as much as Erik did.

The ground shook with such force that Erik lost his grip on Charles, his friend jerked awake and scrabbled to stay on the bed, failing and falling down on top of the unfortunates too weak to climb into the bunks.

Another explosion rocked the block and the bunk shook dangerously, Erik half slid, half fell out of it, wondering if it was going to collapse under him. He dropped onto his hands and knees, found Charles, and pulled them both unsteadily upright.

This time the explosion was so close that it felt like it had landed on top of them. The windows blew in and the floor seemed to vanish from under them. Charles' arm was torn from his grasp and the ground rushed up to meet them so hard that it knocked the air from Erik's lungs. Someone who had managed to stay in the top bunk screamed, his hands lacerated from flying glass.

Erik and Charles pulled themselves free of the tangle of arms and legs and Erik decided, on reflection, to stay on the floor. That way if it happened again it might not hurt as much. Charles appeared to agree, and they crouched near the door, as far away from the broken glass as they could.

"It's the bombers!" Someone shouted from outside.

"The Russians!" Someone else exclaimed- Erik recognised him, with a stab of guilt, as the man he had stolen potatoes off a few days ago- "The Russians are bombing the camp!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Another inmate, a French Jew, "The Russians don't have bombers- it's the English!"

Erik didn't say anything. He covered his head with his hands and pulled Charles against him. They had seen the bombers in the sky for days now, so many that they'd resembled stars in the sky. He had begged and screamed and shouted at them to drop their bombs and blow the whole horrible place to pieces- they all had- but they hadn't. Erik screwed his eyes shut, he wanted the camp destroyed, but he didn't want the two of them to die along with it.

But the explosions were dying away now, growing more distant as the planes flew on- Erik could hear the sounds of their engines over the shouts of dismay from the other prisoners.

Charles hadn't tried to shelter himself as Erik had, and was staring fixedly towards the shattered windows and out into the night sky, glowing red from the fire. "I hope it got them." He whispered absently.

Erik wiped bits of chipped brick and whitewashed ceiling from their bare skin and shivered in the cold night breeze filtering through the broken windows. "Got who?" He asked, distracted.

"The Nazis." Charles smiled, still staring out at the fractured night. "I hope those bombs hit their part of the camp and blew them all to pieces."

They'd all hoped that, although Erik would have preferred if the gas chambers had been hit, that or Mengele's laboratory. But when they emerged the next day they were intact. Charles had got at least part of his wish though, several of the blackened bodies _had_ belonged to the SS, judging by the melted insignia. Charles had given them a ghastly smile when he saw them, they both had. He hadn't been bothered by the deaths then, had agreed, as everyone else had, that the SS had completely deserved their fate.

It was the actions of the army itself that bothers Charles, not the result of these actions, and again Erik withholds a sigh. So this was how it happened then. It was probably all for the best that his friend's illusions were shattered quickly, before he'd had time to start believing them. His desperately hoped for ideal of the 'real world' outside the camps would have fallen through sooner or later.

The American army had shot the Nazis after they had surrendered, and that Charles can't equate with his image of the 'good guys'. Erik doesn't blame the soldiers in the least, and knows that in his heart, Charles doesn't either. Dachau had sounded no better than Belsen, and Erik knows their first reaction would have been to kill those responsible and burn the place to the ground.

But in Charles' world, so-called good people don't shoot unarmed prisoners.

As though he hears his thoughts, Charles stirs, pulling the blanket closer around him. It was late, the ward is fully dark now and the hospital has returned to silence. After the chaos and bustle of the last few hours, it's a relief.

It was ironic, but the same event that so hurt Charles' already tattered faith in mankind restored a little of Erik's. He had never liked the orderlies and nurses, but even he couldn't deny that they had helped them, and seeing them help the survivors of the camp made Erik grant them at least some respect. The former inmates were little better than he and Charles had been when they'd arrived- than they were now although they were cleaner and the treatment given to their injuries had helped- skeletal, filthy, many not able to carry themselves. Erik didn't know how many of them had been brought here, but the sounds of these new arrivals had been heard all over the hospital.

Erik burrows down further under the covers, until the scratchy wool folds over his head and everything goes even darker. Even that movement sends aches and pains up his stiff limbs, and tires him more than he could believe. He rolls over on his side, and slides his arms around Charles' waist, the warmth of his friend's body easing his sore joints. The edges of his ribcage digs into his arms, and Erik is again struck at how thin he is.

He'd never gotten used to that, even though he barely blinked any more at his own emaciated state. It was hard to tell how Charles looked during the day, with his over-large clothes, but at night, when the lights went out and either through daring or lack of space they slept curled up against each other, he couldn't suppress a wince at the feeling of his friend's bones when he touched him.

Not that they had dared to do that much. Erik might not have cared about the Nazi's opinion of their relationship, but he certainly hadn't wanted to risk the beating and probable death that would come should they have found out. But sometimes it had been enough to just lie facing each other, alone in the bunk, and listening to the other breathe, perhaps risking a touch of hands, or a brief kiss.

The contact is so surprising that Charles starts, glancing around the dark ward to make sure they haven't been seen, before allowing himself to relax into the embrace. He reaches down and touches Erik's hands, clasped in the hollow under his ribcage, and smiles when he feels his friend's breath on the back of his neck.

They no longer bothered with disguising their relationship in Belsen, there was no point. Those in their block had far more important things to worry about that what their fellow inmates did.

Curling up together against the tearing cold of the first few months at Belsen, trying to keep warm even as the winter wind shook the broken down barracks.

Falling asleep, chest to back, Erik's arms crossed around his chest, not letting go even in sleep.

The burning touch of Erik's skin against his, that first realisation of sickness.

The sound of Erik's heartbeat and his own when they woke up. Still alive. Another day closer to freedom.

The other inmates in Belsen had ignored them, but it wouldn't be like that here. Charles feels a hot flame of alien anger at the thought, a twisting counterpart to the warmth his friend's touch had lit in his stomach. It isn't fair, he thinks savagely. Haven't they suffered enough? Would they have to deny this also?

It hadn't been easy, passing as brothers here. At first it hadn't been a problem, Erik had been unconscious and the two of them had looked pretty much alike, both bone thin, shaved bald and covered in lice and sores. It had only been when Erik had returned to lucidity that the problems had started. They hadn't been confronted yet, but he could see the questions in their eyes. Why should two brothers look so different? Why did they have such different accents? Charles tried not to talk when they were in earshot, and Erik didn't seem to want to talk to them at all, but if it continued, the nurses would start asking questions that Charles really didn't want to answer. Even if they didn't realise what they were to each other, they would no doubt try to separate them and send him back to America.

Charles tightens his grip on Erik's bony fingers, he has nothing left in America except the remnants of a family that has made it abundantly clear they never want to see him again, just the thought of being shipped off there is frightening enough by itself, never mind that he would have to make the journey there without Erik. The thought of being alone in this insane world is so terrifying he refuses even to think about it.

Erik's free hand strokes along his side soothingly, resting of the edge of his hip, while the other rubs a slow circle against the sore skin of his stomach. Charles turns his head slightly, Erik nuzzling the back of his neck.

Erik hadn't known what the pink triangle had meant at first, or even what homophiles were, outside childish taunts he had never really understood, and when he'd learnt, he hadn't cared. Charles envied him for that. After suffering his stepfather and stepbrother's insults- and the last's horrible consequence- on the subject of a sexuality he didn't understand himself, he wished he had Erik's disregard. But in the circumstances, he probably didn't think it mattered. He had stolen Charles a shirt with a Jewish star, and the next day when they'd been registered, he'd lied to the SS holding the register and been marked down as Charles Lehnsherr, a Jew from Poland. There had been so many there, the man hadn't even looked at him.

Erik's fingers coast over the inside of Charles' left arm, and he fights the urge to pull away as they brush over the numbers he knows are tattooed there. It's too dark under the blanket to see them, but he knows they're there, twenty nine thousand, three hundred and thirty seven. The ink feels like acid injected under his skin.

It had been when it had hit him, that moment when they tattooed him. It was when it had hit most of them just what had happened to them. Just what was going to happen to them now they had nothing. They had no belongings of their own. No clothes of their own. No passports. No rights. No names. He remember clutching his stolen shirt around his shoulders and shivering uncontrollably, his arm burning dull pain from the blunt needles. He remembered some men crying, and Erik's pinched, pale face, numb and expressionless, his own number reflected in his wide eyes- 29338, one more than Charles, since he had been next in line.

He can't help it, and pulls his arm away. He hates that number, hates knowing that he'll be carrying it for the rest of his days. A fragment of Auschwitz, as if he didn't carry enough of that place in his nightmares.

Erik lets go of Charles' arm, and closes his eyes. He can feel the warmth of his skin against his lips, even though they aren't quite touching, and it's with the greatest regret that he pulls away from the tender comfort. He may not care about peoples' reactions, but he doesn't want to tempt fate by risking being seen in the morning entangled with Charles in a very un-brotherly fashion.

He knows Charles doesn't want him to move either, his friend catches his hand and squeezed it again. Erik opens his eyes and in the faint light that filters through the window, he can see Charles roll over and give him a grateful smile. Appreciative of the comfort. Erik smiles back, then lies back on his back and lets the exhaustion built into his bones carry him off to sleep.

The rest of the night passes swiftly, and Erik wakes up the next morning with, for once, no nightmares. He's even spared being awoken by the breakfast bell, a sound so tied in with his memory of the camps that more than once he's ended up trying to stand out of sheer instinct before Charles pulled him back to bed.

It had been a different bell there, and the sound had been accompanied not by the clink of plates and nurses' voices, but by the stamp of boots and the high-pitched shrieking of the block Kapo. There had been a bell in the Auschwitz hospital too, but at least they were spared being beaten if they were too slow in getting out of bed. If anything, that had made them even more eager to get dressed, anything not to lose that position and being ordered back to outside work.

There had been no official bells in Belsen by the end, and although they rung all the same, there was no one to make sure they were obeyed. He remembered the dread when he heard them, not knowing if today would be the day when a Kapo or an SS toured their barracks and put a bullet through his head.

Erik shakes his head. Not today. It's a pleasant enough day outside, cloudy, but with a few patches of blue sky, and a shaft of sunlight coming through the window onto the bed to warm the covers. It's later than usual, and Erik wonders where the breakfast is; a slight warmth of pleasure building inside him at knowing that food is no longer a worry, and that instead of fighting for scraps they'll have everything given to them. An old stab of fear that there won't be enough food to go around, now that so many more have arrived, and the sudden instinct to fight. He crushes the thought. Not here.

Still, one look around the ward threatens to restart his fears, because it is full. Beds previously occupied by recovering soldiers have been claimed for the starving prisoners of Dachau, and even though they have no doubt been given a wash by the hospital staff, the smell still lingers, the smell of filth and mud and blood that had been in their every breath in the concentration camps.

And ash. In Auschwitz their block had been near one of the crematoriums, and every breath took in a mouthful of fine ash that had been, only hours ago, living people. They all hated it when the flames licked out of the chimney, not only because of the people being burnt, but because everything, including each other, became covered in ash. They would be made to clean the block, but as the ash was still coming down, everything they cleaned became blackened almost immediately. They would be beaten, some would die and be dragged to the crematorium, and whole process would start again.

Not now.

Charles is still asleep, and Erik is just wondering whether to wake him before the bell rings- which he know his friend enjoys even less than he does- or letting him sleep for as long as possible, when the choice is taken out of his hands and the nurse walks in, followed by three orderlies and the breakfast trolley.

Erik smiles ironically, it seems as though the hospital staff have realised that very few people will be able to come up and serve themselves now. Which explains why they were so late, they had to tour the other beds in the other wards. He's hungry, it seems almost absurd to think so, and to label the faint gnawing as 'hunger' after knowing times when he couldn't stand straight for the cramps in his stomach, but it's a pleasant kind of absurdity, and a reminder that while this may not be Charles' mythical 'real world', it doesn't make these simple pleasures any less real.

As the trolley trundles slowly towards them, Erik prods Charles' shoulder. The nurse seems to have forgotten her bell and his friend is in danger of sleeping through breakfast.

He dreamt of the past mostly. It was strange, but when waking Charles couldn't really call those dreams nightmares. They were memories, alien inside the dreamscape, but memories nevertheless. They were horrible enough to be classified as nightmares in any sane, waking world, but then this was no sane, waking world, and in the camps there had been so little difference between the horrors of waking and reality that they didn't even scare him any more.

This however, was a nightmare.

He was clawing at Erik's arms; his nails renting his friend's skin, trying to hold still him as shapeless, faceless hands dragged him away. He had this nightmare so often, too often. Sometimes it was an SS, one hand holding a gun to Erik's head, the other half-strangling him as he was torn away. Sometimes it was a pack of dogs, the same dogs who had killed his family, their teeth embedded in his friend's shoulders and a trail of blood staining the floor. Sometimes it was Mengele, expressionless and cold, white gloves and scalpels. Or sometimes, like now, it was nothing, just hands pulling Erik slowly and relentlessly away. And Erik was screaming.

He'd never heard Erik scream like that, but he knew what it meant. Erik knew where he was being taken, and it terrified him. His head thrown back, screaming his lungs out until his voice ran hoarse and faded to a cracked sob. His hands grappled against Charles', trying to find purchase, but it was as thought their hands had been drenched in oil, and no matter how they struggled, they couldn't find a hold.

Charles choked back a cry of his own, one hand grabbing at his friend's shirt and feeling the fabric tear as his pulled back and he was left holding a handful of striped cloth. Erik screamed again, snatching at Charles' shoulders. Charles felt his hands slip, nails scratching his cheek raw and flying loose. He tried to catch hold of him, but missed. Erik scrabbled at the ground, digging his fingers into the earth in an attempt to stop himself being dragged away, but the hands paid that no attention, dragging him to his feet. He screamed a third time, one hand outstretched before one of the hands clenched around his throat and cut his voice off. But like the dead in the gas chambers, Charles could hear him in his head, so loud and crazed with fear that he thought his skull would burst.

But he couldn't move, his legs didn't work, and he was tearing at the ground with hands and screaming in turn-

"Ah!" Charles' eyes snap opened and he's almost immediately blinded by the sunlight. He scrambles backward, striking his back against the metal headboard of the bed with such force that it almost knocks the wind out of him.

His eyes haven't adjusted yet, and even when he closes his eyes, the afterimages are dazzling. Charles draws up his knees against his chest and regrets it almost instantly as the cold air hits him after the warmth in the bed.

Bed?

Oh, of course.

Charles rubs his eyes furiously with the back of his hand, blinking against the light. The ward. Right. With the orderlies glaring daggers at him- breakfast already?- some of the more traumatised patients starting to scream in their turn after his cry, and Erik- _Erik_- looking at him with wry concern. Charles lets out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Erik is fine, or as fine as he ever gets normally. It was a nightmare, like all the others. He slides back down under the covers, and huddles against Erik, trying to warm up. Erik's hand touches his from beneath the covers, and Charles folds his fingers over it, the details of the dream fading at the contact.

"Did you have a bad dream?" At least, that's what Charles thinks Erik's saying, since he's whispering so softly he can barely hear him. He can feel Erik's breath on the back of his shoulder, warm against bone, and glances around to check that no-one's looking.

They're not, the orderlies and nurse are still busy, but as the ward slowly quietens he feels Erik move away, a last squeeze on his hand before he releases it and pulls back.

Breakfast is the same as dinner the night before, and lunch before that, and breakfast before that. The same thin grey gruel that they had been given since they arrived here.

They had often talked about food, when they were at their hungriest. It was torture, but it was all they could think about. What they'd liked to eat before they came here, the dishes their families cooked that they always remembered. And always, what was the first thing they would eat when they got out of here? Not if, when, because even though they were dropping with exhaustion and hunched over with hunger, they couldn't give that hope up. So they'd talked, and grown more hungry, and wished endlessly for an escape.

And it was strange that after so long wishing and hoping, their actual rescue had been… almost anti-climatic. There had been no great surge of relief as they had imagined, only a compounding of previous fears. There had been no- Charles sighed- so-called 'heroic rescue'. And bizarrely, he didn't feel very hungry, and the foods Erik and he had dreamed up now seemed faintly repulsive. The gruel they were given might be tasteless and thin, but at least it would stay in their stomachs, which their dreamt of meats and puddings wouldn't.

He'd studied the effects of starvation in Harvard, while he was training as a medical student. The examples given were mostly from the drought and poverty stricken countries in Africa, and while he had felt some vague sympathy for the poor people, and made a decision to send part of his allowance to the aid agencies, he hadn't really understood. He hadn't know what it felt like, or that in civilised Europe, there were hundreds of people in the same state. And he would certainly never have imagined in his wildest nightmares that three years later he would look like them. Muselmann. Dead and still walking.

The next mouthful of gruel has to be forced down through the lump in his throat. Erik doesn't notice, he's sitting up for once- although he looks a little unsteady- hunched over his bowl and eating much too fast. Charles touches his arm to remind him to slow down, they don't have to rush everything here, no one's going to take the food away.

_They always had to eat fast in the camps. If they had stolen it, they had to swallow it quickly to avoid having it taken away by their angry target. If it hadn'__t been, then they had to eat even faster to make sure no one stole from them. They had to pay for eating like that though, the stomach cramps they got could be agonizing, and more than once their hard-earned meal had come up again when their bodies simply couldn'__t cope with the half-chewed food._

Erik gives him a slightly self-deprecating nod, and slows down, finally putting aside his spoon and swallowing down the last few mouthfuls straight from the bowl. Charles can't hold back a smile. To think that only a few weeks ago Erik couldn't even feed himself, and choked whenever his friend tried to feed him dry food. Charles' smile broadens, Erik is so stubborn that it seemed at times as though even death gave up when he was concerned.

He remembered when they had fallen ill in Auschwitz. Typhoid fever had spread through the camp in the spring of their second year, and they had both caught it. They had been in the hospital at the time, and found themselves transferred from medical staff to patients, and no longer allowed the larger ration of food their previous position had allotted to them. There had been one night that stood out in Charles' mind. They knew that there would be a selection the next day, a selection that would almost certainly have ended with them in block 25- the last stop before the gas chamber. That night Erik had used the handle of his tin spoon to grind their names into the soft, half-rotted wood of the bed, as proof that they'd been there, since by tomorrow there'd probably be nothing left of them but a cloud of ashes. But come the next day, their fever had broken and they were able to stand. They had hurriedly resumed their duties as if they had never been ill, and while it had probably made it harder for them to recover, at least they'd been able to survive the selection.

Charles wonders if their names are still there, carved on the footboard of the bed. It seems only fair, he decides, looking down at the blue number etched into his skin. That place left a mark on them, and they left one in turn. Poetic. He looks over at Erik, who's looking at the orderlies, clearly wondering if they can serve him a second helping.

Well, he really doesn't feel all that hungry, and anyway his stomach still feels too stunned from the miracle of regular meals to complain. Charles passed Erik his bowl. His friend looks at the bowl in surprise, rolls his eyes, and pushes the bowl back. Charles is reminded of his expression in the truck, when he'd given him the water flask. "I'm not hungry," He insists quietly, an eye on the nurse, "Finish it, you need it more than I do."

Erik doesn't dignify that with an answer, only scowling and dumping the bowl unceremoniously in Charles' lap. Gruel slops out onto the blankets and Erik rolls over, facing towards the wall. Charles sighs. "Fine, if you really don't want it-" He puts the half-full bowl on the floor and lies back down, feeling his backbone creak as it straightens and biting back a groan as his body relaxes.

Erik isn't relaxed, although he's making every effort to appear so, and Charles knows that his attention is still fixed on the food when he asks "Aren't you going to eat that?"

Charles rolls his shoulders back, "I told you," he manages to hide the note of triumph from his voice, "I wasn't hungry."

"Oh." It's just as well Erik can't see him, because his smile would give the game away. "Are you sure?"

Heaven forbid that he would actually admit that yes, actually he did want the food. Charles rolls on his side, "Hmm-mm." He confirms, reaching down to where the bowl is lying on the hard tiles of the floor.

Lowering himself enough to be able to peer under the bed brings all the blood to his head, and he can feel his heart pounding in his ears when he sends the bowl sliding along the tiles to Erik's side, then crawling back into the welcoming warmth of the blankets.

Erik doesn't say anything, and Charles is turned away so he can't see him, but by the clink of spoon on bowl, he's not so stubborn that he would turn down free food.


	9. Part Three, Chapter one

Part 3

Chapter one

Erik slides his painfully thin legs over the edge of the bed, and for a moment it's all he can do just to sit up, his bare feet in his old shoes. He looks so dizzy that Charles can't help but wonder if he'll be able to stand up. At least Erik managed to get dressed by himself without much trouble. He's wearing a pair of pants which someone has roughly cut to length for him- Charles can see the threads hanging from the uneven cut- a thin shirt which has been so over stretched it looks like it might fall off him completely, and the army coat. The thick grey-brown fabric is too large and hangs from his shoulders like broken wings. With a grim sigh, Erik grips the bed frame with one hand and the headboard with the other, and levers himself to his feet.

His legs hold him for a few seconds before giving way, and he collapses back down on the side of the bed. Charles shuffles towards him to help, but Erik waves him off with a brusque gesture- he wants to do this alone.

_Erik always hated having to rely on anyone, he hadn'__t minded when they'__d worked together, watching each other'__s backs- a partnership of equals- but having to lie alone and helpless while Charles ran the gauntlet of the day to scavenge them both food- That was intolerable. _

How many times has he seen that look of impotent frustration on his face? That same look Erik is wearing now as he tries again, forcing himself upright a second time. His legs shake and Charles steps closer in case his friend is about to collapse again, but he doesn't. One hand still on the bedstead, Erik smiles at him in grim triumph, it might not look like much of a victory, but it's been more than a month since Erik was able to stand up without assistance.

_Three weeks ago, the stink and squalor of the Belsen barracks and the bark and snarl of the SS- Anyone that can'__t walk will be shot. Schneller!_

_Their bunk was at the back and the place where the two of them lay was so dark it was hard to see anything. Charles had hoped- worthlessly, uselessly- that they would be hidden here, but when he saw the man starting to walk down the rows, checking each stinking bunk in turn with a look of revulsion, he hadn'__t been surprised._

_Erik was lucid today, which was a relief and little short of a miracle, but watching his friend drag himself hand over hand, painfully slowly out of the bunk, Charles knew it wasn'__t going to do much good. When Erik finally dragged himself to the edge of the bed he couldn'__t even pull himself out, let alone stand._

They aren't the only ones being asked to leave. With more people arriving every day, both from Dachau and from the war still raging, anyone deemed 'out of danger' has to leave the hospital wards for the benefit of those who need the constant care.

Charles isn't sure he agrees with the staff's assessment of them, he might be able to function, but as much as he'd like to deny it, Erik still needs help. He suspects the staff expects him to take care of that, which is accurate but doesn't make him any better disposed towards them. Still, he isn't really complaining.

_He hadn'__t really welcomed company recently- Erik doesn'__t count. After everything that had happened, Charles would have preferred to be left as alone as possible, to settle his scrambled mind. But the hospital had grown more and more crowded as more trucks had arrived, filled with starved camp inmates and bloodied soldiers._

Erik makes it four steps towards the door before his legs buckle again, and he staggers over to the wall. Charles can hear him muttering something under his breath, a curse, an encouragement, a wordless growl of frustration as his body lets him down yet again. Charles walks up beside him and slides Erik's gaunt arm around his shoulders before starting towards the doors again.

It seems absurd that someone can feel this heavy when they're so thin that he can feel every bone in their body. Erik's wrist feels frighteningly fragile in his hands, as though one wrong movement could crush the bones to powder, and when Charles puts his arm around his friend's waist he feels the ribs dig in, even through the coat. But despite this Erik still feels as heavy as one of the stones they'd had to carry in the _Strafkommando_, and Charles staggers into the wall under his weight. He stops a moment to settle his friend more comfortably and starts again.

_He'__d carried Erik before, and for much longer. It was winter when they left Auschwitz, and it was not at the hands of their longed-for liberators. The Russian front was now so close that all camp activity had stopped, and they had been confined to their block all day. Speculations had raged as to whether it was in order to organize them before they were shot, or because the SS wanted to have a clear run of it when the camp was taken._

_It was neither, and one morning- they had lost count of the days since the new year- they were told to take a blanket and line up outside. They were counted, and marched out of the camp._

_It had been surreal to actually leave the camp, and while it was not the way they would have chosen to leave, still under the whips of the SS, Charles knows that he wasn'__t the only one who gave a discrete sigh of relief when they passed under the iron gates for the last time._

_In Belsen, he learnt that he and Erik had actually been lucky in the march, they had to walk only as far as the camp of Gross-Rosen before they were loaded onto a train and taken the rest of the way. Others had been forced to travel the hundreds of miles entirely on foot._

_At the time, however, neither of them had felt particularly fortunate. The march would have been gruelling even for healthy men, which they hadn'__t been for a long time. They started walking the moment there was enough light to see by, and stopped only when it became too dark to see the road, and even then, they were sometimes pressed on regardless._

_They'__d taken it in turns, first he would rest on Erik'__s shoulder, being half-guided, half carried by his friend, who kept them walking. Then when he had recovered somewhat, they swapped and it was Erik'__s turn to rest. Charles had felt as though he'__d been sleepwalking the whole time, except that you didn'__t feel quite so cold if you were asleep._

Charles' shoulder is going numb by the time they walk outside, followed by more than two dozen others who the doctor and nurses decided are well enough to leave the hospital. They haven't been outside since they arrived here, and the fresh air feels wonderful. It's strange to no longer smell the scent of blood that was a constant presence in the hospital, but it's a welcome change.

Erik stumbles at the doorstep, and Charles almost loses his balance when his friend's thin boots slip on the wet ground and he lurches sideways. Erik winces, and Charles sighs, clothing at the hospital had been scarce, and Charles can see a few people there still wearing their camp uniforms- albeit now clean. They had hardly any shoes to speak of, and Erik ended up keeping the old boots he had taken so long ago from Auschwitz, despite the fact that that the soles are almost worn through and the leather is now splitting along the seams.

_It was one of the few memories which Charles doesn'__t wince at recalling, although he thinks Erik might disagree. It had happened in their first few months at the camp, and it'__s a depressing thought that had the same man run up to him and begged to be hidden only a few weeks later, he would have ignored him. Had it happened a few months after that, he would have beaten the man with his shovel and stolen the food he was so desperate to hide from the approaching Kapo. As it had happened, he had tipped over the wheelbarrow they were meant to fill, and hidden the man under the loose clods of earth._

_Erik hadn'__t said anything, because the Kapo chasing the man had just appeared, but the horrified look on his face promised a long diatribe the moment they could risk talking without being beaten. He shook his head furiously and pulled the rusty wheelbarrow upright again as the Kapo ran up._

_Charles tried not to listen to the man, focusing his attention on slowly refilling the barrow, carefully avoiding the earth covering the fugitive. The Kapo stopped, looked around, snarled something at Erik that Charles couldn'__t understand, and then swung his club warningly in their direction before storming off._

_"__Are you mad? What do you think you were doing?"__ Erik hissed in the mish-mash of German and bad English which they had started to use when they wanted to talk. He dug his spade vindictively into the pile of loose earth, prompting a yelp from the buried man. "__Have you any idea what they could have done to us, if they found out?"_

_"__What was I supposed to do?"__ Charles whispered back, leaning his spade against the wheelbarrow and helping the man up. "__What do you think they'__d have done to him?"_

_Erik snorted, he had known what would have happened had they been found out, and soon, Charles would as well. And then he would never take such a risk again. _

_That time however, it had paid off. The man had stolen from the huts where the Nazis kept anything that could be used from those they killed- the part of the camp that the inmates called '__Canada'__- and had given them a new pair of boots and a piece of ham as thanks._

_Two days later, the same man had been dragged in front of most of Birkenau, been shot in the groin by one of the SS, and was torn to pieces by the guards'__ dogs._

The ground feels strange under his feet after so long flat on his back, and the light is blinding, hurting his eyes. It was enough hard to adjust to the light coming in through the window above their bed, and this is too much. Erik screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. The redness under his closed eyes is stained with black after images, and when he opens them he can barely see where he's going. He doesn't see the step and slips, landing badly on his ankle and wincing in pain.

_There had been days in Belsen when he couldn'__t even go out in daylight without feeling that his head would split in half, and was obliged to wait until the sky was overcast or the sun had set. He had known, deep down, what that had meant. Typhus was sweeping through the camp at such a rate that they both knew the symptoms by heart. But he hadn'__t said anything, and neither had Charles, as though by not saying the name of their blight they could somehow keep it at bay._

Slowly, the blurs of shadows resolve themselves into the shapes of tents, trucks and the orderlies sent to settle them into their new surroundings. They act as though expecting someone to object, but no one does. Many of those here are new arrivals from Dachau, and still too shell-shocked to properly understand what's happening. As for Erik, he knows perfectly well that they have no choice.

It wasn't simply a matter of strength, yes, if he were well enough to walk he wouldn't stay here any longer than he possibly had to, but where to go? His family is dead, shot by the Nazis. His uncles and aunts and cousins died in the ghettos and pogroms, and his grandparents were shot by Polish soldiers when they refused to give up their land. Charles has family left, true, but they will get no help from that quarter. There is nowhere for either of them to leave to.

Erik pushes the sinking sensation the thought evokes aside; when he can walk, then he'll wonder where to go and not before. Charles helps him limp close enough to hear the orderly, his ankle singing with pain with every step.

It's with a slight feeling of shock that Erik realizes that he's actually taller than most of those standing here. After three weeks of lying on his back, everyone has felt like giants, and it's strange to get his surroundings into perspective.

It feels alien to walk again after so long, and part of him wonders if it was even possible for his legs to support him, wasted as they are. His balance is somewhat off and even this short walk is incredibly tiring, but he hasn't fallen over yet. His spine and joints ache at the unwelcome and unused to activity, and Erik hunches over under the weight of his coat, again feeling grateful to the soldier who gave it to him. The morning air is freezing after so long spent in bed, and Erik removes his cramping arm from Charles' shoulders and pulls his coat more closely around him. It's probably not as cold as it feels, but the breeze has a bite to it.

_Charles once asked him if he found the cold any easier to bear for having been brought up here, Erik had answered no. Because no one can find the Polish winter easy to bear._

_The cold that first winter was so intense that many of those they worked with had lost fingers to it. One man had severe frostbite in his foot and kept working regardless rather than go to the hospital. But there were always more selections during winter and he was taken soon afterwards. Erik wore his boots and Charles rags torn from their blanket, and they had been both able to find gloves, but nothing could shut out the horrible, driving cold. They had survived that winter, but by the time the next transport arrived, their block was almost empty._

Few of the others in the group are as lucky as he is, although several have copied Charles and have blankets tied around their shoulders like cloaks. Erik sees more than a few envious looks cast at his coat, his hands tighten on the thick cloth protectively as he scowls warningly back at them. It's unpleasant to be reminded of the camps in this place; but with the rough, half disassembled fences, the twists of barbed wire like metallic brambles, and the slightly threatening feeling of those envious eyes on him, it is all too poignant. Erik leans against Charles for support- a flash of the old frustration at being a burden- and looks between the orderlies and the group.

_Kapos and prisoners._

Stop it.

The head orderly looks nervous now, away from the familiar ground of the hospital corridors. He looks smaller too, although that may be because Erik's taller than him by several inches. His eyes blink quickly when he looks over the small crowd of gaunt faces. Erik wonders what he's seeing.

_He remembers the first time he saw his reflection after they'__d arrived at the camps. They'__d been there several months already, and the rain had been falling heavily that day. They'__d been standing on roll-call for hours, and were ankle-deep in mud. The rain had had just stopped, and Erik had looked down, more out of want of a distraction than any real goal, and seen his reflection in a puddle._

_It had been the first time he'__d seen himself since his parents had sold the old mirror in the ghetto, they hadn'__t needed it as much as they'__d needed money for food._

_The reflection had been dark and distorted, but Erik could recognize his own features. They'__d grown sharper with hunger, his eyes sunken and the skin drawn tightly around the bones of his face. Lines etched into previously smooth skin. His dark hair shaved off._

Absently, Erik runs his free hand over his scalp. His hair is growing back slowly, softening from the hard, gritty spikes of a few days before. He wonders what he looks like now. He's seen something of his reflection in the window-pane, but not enough to really tell.

The tent they've been given is further away from the hospital than the others, and Charles suspects it's because of their nightmares. It worries him to be so far from assistance, but it's been a long time since they've had any privacy to speak of.

The tent was probably originally meant for only one person, but two flimsy camp beds have been crammed into it. There's barely enough space to walk around them, let alone between them. The ground is covered in tarp and cardboard, with a few pieces of wooden planking here and there.

_The ground in the block had been packed earth, and often if it rained during the night, the lower bunks would become flooded. Some wet mornings they would wake to find that some prisoners, those too weak to stand or even wake up, had downed in the mud during the night._

Charles runs one hand over his eyes, trying to brush away the images of the blank, staring faces half buried in murk, and sits down on one of the beds. It creaks and sags under even his slight weight. Beside him, Erik lies down on the other bed and curls up under his coat with his head on the thin pillow, he pulls the blankets over himself and Charles hears his breathing slow as he falls asleep almost immediately.

_It'__s a good sign, the nurse had said, when Erik had fallen asleep in the doctor'__s office. Charles didn'__t know if they'__d been talking to him or not, and so had said nothing. Erik had spent more than four days drifting in and out of sleep, waking just as exhausted as he had been to begin with. He'__d spent more and more time awake as time went on, but even the smallest activity, like eating or washing, was enough to send him back into a sleep so deep it seemed that he didn'__t even dream._

Charles hopes Erik wasn't dreaming now, he knows what those dreams are like. He pulls off the worn army boots with a sigh, he had lost his shoes on the transport, having swapped them in exchange for a better place to stand and space for Erik to sit. These were the only ones the hospital staff had been able to find and they are much too small and it hurts to wear them for any stretch of time. He doesn't bother taking anything else off, just crawling under the musty smelling blankets and resting his head on the pillow.

Charles usually tries not to think about his life before the camps, the contrast is so sharp it's painful. He usually succeeds, the events of the last three years stand out like a wall of flame in his memory, casting everything that had come before into shadow. Sometime though, he can't help but remember what it had felt like to sit by the fireplace in winter, while the wind howled against the window panes but he was warm and safe indoors. Or of the great feast his wealthy grandmother would throw every Christmas.

_Or what it felt like to sleep in a real bed after spending his nights on the lumpy mattresses of the hospital, and the bare straw bunks of the camps before that. The memory of the warmth of the thick quilts and the soft tickles of the woollen blankets. The featherbed covering the mattress, so thick you could drown in it, and so many pillows that Charles always had to get rid of a few when he wanted to sleep. The comfort of sitting up in bed at night with a lamp and a good book._

He really misses his books now. He had never thought of them before, except perhaps wistfully wishing he had a few to act as kindling on the unbearably cold nights. But now it really sinks in how much he misses his old life. He misses getting up and going to breakfast without any doubt that there _will_ be breakfast. He misses going to his lectures and learning. He misses the familiar streets and places of his old town. He even misses his violent stepfather and alcoholic mother. But most of all, he misses being about to go on with his life without that constant, gut-wrenching fear that creeps up on him and forces him to re-live, over and over, the things he would rather forget.

Charles closes his eyes, the beds are so close together he and Erik might as well be sharing, and he buries himself down in the darkness under the covers, away from the light glowing through the khaki walls of the tent. Erik's curled up on his side, facing away from him, and when Charles rests his head on his friend's back, he can hear Erik's heart beating from under the layers of cloth and skin and bone.

When he wakes up, Erik can't imagine where he is. The light around is a dim green, like sunshine through fresh leaves, and for a confused moment, he wonders if he might indeed be outside. Then he remembers, and rolls over on his back, staring up at the slanted canvas ceiling.

He's alone.

The knowledge kicks him with such force that for a few seconds, he can't even move. He can feel his heart starting to pound in his ears, and his breaths coming faster and ragged. He sits up so fast his head almost hits the side of the tent, and his ears ring warningly. Erik barely notices. Charles is gone, and the fear is back, a stone knot in the pit of his stomach.

_Charles had gone. It was after roll-call and he had vanished. Erik had turned around the moment the Kapo left, but couldn'__t see his friend. At first he had forced himself not to panic, crushing down the claws of fear that gripped his throat, it would not have been the first time they had been separated. Perhaps Charles had gone after someone who had saved something from breakfast. Even in his mind, the explanation rang false. It might explain his own actions, but Charles could hardly swallow his guilt in order to eat the bread Erik stole, let alone take any himself. He tried to convince himself that they had only been separated by accident, even while his mind whispered horrible and all too likely possibilities. _

It isn't the first time they have lost each other, but the knowledge that they had always managed to find each other alive again doesn't diminish Erik's fears, built up as they are over so many years. He looks around the tent a second time, absurdly, as if Charles will be there this time around.

_He had looked around as they'__d marched, half-believing that he'__d see Charles, or that his friend would miraculously reappear at his shoulder, where he always was. He remembered the ghetto, when his younger brother had gone missing. The way they'__d searched for days, asking everyone if they had seen him, until finally they had realised they he would not be coming back._

_The memory was agonising, the comparison too horrible to think about. Erik had even gone as far as lagging behind, trying to pick out his friend amidst the faces of the other prisoners. A passing Kapo had struck him across the back, shouting at him to hurry up, and Erik had not been so desperate as to disobey._

Why would Charles leave? It can't have been long enough after they had arrived for it to be time to eat, and surely he would have woken Erik to tell him where he's going. Charles doesn't like going out alone any more that Erik does, he'd heard as much while he was sick, and Charles' fears are no better than his.

_Throughout the backbreaking day of digging and carrying and laying out the iron rail tracks, Erik had to come to the conclusion that Charles wasn'__t there at all. He had relived the memories of that morning over and over again, and couldn'__t understand where Charles had gone, only that he had gone, and that if Erik would ever see him again, it would be as a cold corpse, stretched out at the evening roll-call. The endless procession of horrible possibilities which made his hands sweat so much he could barely hold the spade, the sickening churning of fear in his stomach that drained him more than hunger could, the wild desperate hope that the next time he would look up Charles would be there, and the cold certainty that he wouldn'__t be._

Erik slides off the bed, his legs trembling warningly under him as he stands up quickly, leaning on the tent pole to steady himself. He's not sure where he means to go, only that there doesn't feel like there's enough air in the tent, and he needs to go outside. Charles isn't here, and perhaps if he leaves he could see where his friend has gone and quiet the fears.

_When they'__d returned to the camp, Erik could barely walk, exhausted even beyond what he'__d come to expect in this place, and before evening roll call he had slipped away to the squalid hut that was their block lavatory, just to have time to scrape together his thoughts and regain some form of composure. And there, hiding in the corner of the hut, had been Charles._

He hasn't taken two faltering steps towards the door before he realizes that he isn't going to make it much further, and collapses back down on the bed. He has barely made his second, stubbornly hopeless attempt before Charles pushes his way through the tent flaps, looking almost as worried as Erik.

_Disbelief had hit first, then anger so deep he actually took a few steps forwards, wanting to strike his friend. Then finally a bone-deep, crushing relief that was even more tiring than the fear had been._

Charles sees Erik's face as he walks in, and knows that his hope that his friend had slept through his absence has been in vain. Erik is pale, his skin shiny with sweat, and the moment he sees him his eyes go wide with shock before narrowing with anger- well placed, Charles thinks guiltily, his own fears forgotten in sympathy for his friend. Then finally, Erik slumps over with a sigh, collapsing back down across the beds and shaking his head as if to shake away the fears.

"Where have you been?" Erik whispers, the words would be accusing if they didn't sound so tired.

Charles places the bowls he had been carrying beside the bed, and sits down by the rusty, bent headboard. His vision blurs briefly at the sudden change of altitude, but he ignores it and reaches over to runs one hand soothingly over Erik's head, brushing back the dirty spikes. The hair looks oddly discoloured, but before he can get a better look, Erik pulls away, curling up at the other end of the bed, with his coat wrapped haphazardly around him and the anger back in his eyes.

"Where have you been?" Erik repeats, glancing at the bowls on the floor, then back up at Charles, some of the anger ebbing from his eyes. "It can't be time for dinner yet."

"Supper, actually." Charles pulls his shoes off with a sigh and sits up on the bed, sliding his arms around his legs. "We slept though most of the day."

_Or rather, Erik did, Charles woke up every so often to watch his friend, but he also felt constantly tired and soon joined him in slumber again. They had both missed the midday dinner- assuming the hospital had it organized already, which he doubted. He'__d heard the bell for supper though, and worried over whether or not to wake Erik to go with him. Eventually he had decided against it. If his friend needed to sleep this badly, then it would be best he got as much of it as he could, and besides, if walking from the hospital to the tent had worn him out, he was probably not going to be able to come anyway._

Still, knowing how much his friend hates to be left behind, Charles decides not to say this out loud. Instead he gets up and hands Erik his bowl, which he takes without comment, but frowns when Charles gives him a large chunk of dark bread.

"I've eaten mine already," Charles lies, and smiles when Erik gives in.

_It was trick he'__d learnt in Belsen, he'__d tried to give his friend his ration of bread, but Erik, who in other times had fought other prisoners bloody for their share, always refused. The one line he would not cross. Eventually Charles found that if he added some water to the scraps, he could press both pieces together. It did look crushed, but if Erik asked, Charles simply said that he'__d nearly had it stolen, which was more often than not the case._

And although Erik gives the bread a scrutinizing look, he accepts it. It isn't really much of a lie, Charles tells himself, he _had_ eaten some, but probably not as much as he had let Erik believe. Cradling the half-full bowl in one hand, Charles manoeuvres himself until he's sitting next to Erik. Since his friend doesn't move away, it's probably a good move.


	10. Part Three, Chapter two

Chapter two

_It had been quiet again for a while, and Erik knew he should have suspected something would happen. He liked it when it was__ quiet, when it'__s just him and Charles and they don'__t need to talk- perhaps in a few years they would enjoy talking; when they actually had things to talk about- but silence had been such a rare commodity for so long that they wanted to enjoy it. The days rolled around as regularly as a clock counting out the hours, the meals were finally starting to become something they could recognize as real food- vegetable stew most days- and nothing to do but sleep or sit outside in the sun, or lately even walk around a little, his legs no longer felt as though they were about to collapse under him._

_He should have realized, how Charles always said he ate his share of bread outside when he went alone to get their meals, the way he now seemed to get tired more quickly than Erik did, so many little clues that he had ignored as stalwartly as he had ignored the signs of his own illness. The quiet was dangerous because he wanted it to go on badly enough to ignore their problems until they were right on top of them._

Erik sighs and glares at Charles for the hundredth time. He can't believe that his friend would be so foolish as to cheat himself _here_. As much as he hated Charles for doing it in Belsen, he might have been able to understand why, but here…

"Why didn't you just ask them for more?" He whispers, too exasperated to put any strength in his voice.

Charles smiles up at his, a touch of irony in the expression, "Would you?" He asks, with a slight challenge in his voice. Erik ignores it, Charles knows the answer to that. He coughs, then continues in a more even voice "There are too many people here for them to give out any more than they already are." Another cough, and Charles pulls the blankets closer around him. Erik would have left his coat as extra bedcovering for his sick friend, but Charles wouldn't hear of it, and after he had threatened to throw it on the floor, Erik had taken it back.

They have already had breakfast, and Erik had braved the hospital to demand something for Charles, who was feverish and had found it hard to eat.

The fears are fading, Erik realizes. Two months ago, finding Charles like this would have terrified him beyond any nightmares, but while he _does_ worry, the fears have been muted, fading under the curtain of security the hospital has thrown over them. It might not be the paradise Charles- and yes, he- had once dreamed of, but it _is_ a safe place. A place where he could go to the nurse for medicine for a sick friend, and not be afraid of being shot or beaten or given poison in the guise of healing.

_They had seen many such cases, working in the hospital in Auschwitz. A fellow worker forced into giving a patient arsenic by an SS doctor, or perhaps a fatal does of painkillers, just so the sadistic creature could observe what the effects would be. They had never been put in such a position, thank heavens, because if the hospital worker refused, the SS took it that he was volunteering to take the patient'__s place and would poison him instead._

The medicine had helped, although Erik isn't sure how much Charles was exaggerating when he said he was fine. He stands up nevertheless, and steels himself to walk out of the tent alone. Since he's started to walk again he's always tried to go with Charles to fetch their meals, although most mornings his friend lets him sleep and gets them himself; probably to give Erik as excuse as to where his share of the bread had gone.

_They'__d been eating supper last night, when half the bread he was using to wipe up the last of the soup fell away. Two pieces pressed together as one. A clever trick. He'__d looked at Charles, shocked and furious that Charles would trick him into betraying him. _

_"__How long have you been doing this?"_

_How long have I been eating your share?_

_How long have you been going without for my sake?_

The day is colder than usual, cloudy and grey which matches Erik's mood perfectly. He had promised himself, in a promise that had nothing to do with empty words but everything with true intent, that he would never hurt Charles either willingly or unwillingly. His friend was the one he refused to betray, the last boundary before the end of the world, and Charles had tricked him into crossing it. He hadn't spoken to Charles for the rest of that evening, only had only started again when his friend had woken with a fever.

The morning dew has already soaked through the holes in Erik's boots, and the relief of walking again is not so great that he can tolerate his feet getting wet. The hem of his coat is trailing along the long grass, and it too is getting sodden, the greyish fabric turning black along the edges.

_The hospital has very little running water, apparently many of the pipes burst the last winter and haven'__t been replaced. Those staying in the tents who need water have to draw it from the well and Erik and Charles are no exception. The hospital staff warm some once a week to use for bathing._

By the time Erik reaches the large drum from which the hot water is being ladled out, he's wet and shivering and impatient with the world. The orderly hands him a tin bucket as he passes, and for a moment Erik pauses, turning the metal in his hands. It's poor quality, and rusty in several places, but he feels an odd surge of gratitude towards the man for giving it to him.

_He'__d always loved metal for some reason, and one of his earliest memories involves playing with a heavy iron candlestick and being subsequently scolded for it by his mother. He'__d collected scraps of metal when he was younger, even during their time at the ghetto._

Erik ran a finger along the metal rim of the pail. Familiar. Comforting in a strange way.

_The hard, jagged edge of the spade._

_"__Wo ist Charles?"_A German voice breaks though Erik's thoughts and he starts, almost dropping the pail. The nurse in charge of sharing out the hot water is looking at him inquisitively. She's smiling, and it's all Erik can do not to grit his teeth. The woman- he's never bothered learning their names- is almost as tall as he is, with her blond hair pulled back in a severe bun, stretching the lined skin of her face. She makes it a policy to learn everyone's name, something Erik finds even more threatening than her language.

_In the camps, anonymity had been their ally, to be just another face in the crowd a protection. Erik remembered reading, long ago when he'__d still been allowed inside a library, about how some animals protected themselves from predators by vanishing into a crowd of their fellows. Charles had found the analogy particularly fitting. To stand out was to make yourself a target for people who didn'__t need a reason to kill you._

_"_Charles nie jest tutaj." Erik snaps back, deliberately in Polish- Charles isn't here. He sees the woman's smile fade and her face close as she fills his bucket and hands it back to him. She probably believes he hates with her for what her people did to him. Good. Let her think that. It's nothing but the truth and he knows he's not the only one who feels that way.

The handle of the bucket has a round wooden grip, but this is cracked and covered in splinters, and Erik starts off carrying it by the metal. The weight feels enormous and keeps pulling him off balance. The metal cuts painfully into his hands and before long he has to stop and hold it by the wooden grip. Even using two hands, it's too heavy, and Erik can feel the weight drag on his shoulders, the old pain coming back from where they never had a change to heal.

_After his parents had been shot, Erik had crawled out of the grave, only to be caught almost immediately by the thunderstruck German soldiers. He had twisted out of their hands and escaped, only to run straight into another SS guard. He had screamed himself hoarse and kicked and bitten and Erik suspects that if they hadn't been as bewildered as to how he'd managed to survive, they would have shot him again on the spot._

_They didn't. Instead they dragged him into the truck and drove to the station. The train he had initially believed they would be taking had left long ago- en route for Belzec, he heard the SS say- but another would be coming from France to take on fuel on its way to Auschwitz. They'd put him on that, and let the guards at the camp do what they liked with him when he got there. They did not want him as their problem._

_But there were several hours before the train would arrive, and many of the soldiers had received scratches and bruises from Erik's wild flailing, as well as a few unpleasant remarks about their marksmanship from their superior, and were quite happy to take it out on the cause of their misfortune._

_They had found the rope in one of the cabinets, and lashed one end to a hook on the wall. They'd thrown the other end over a ceiling beam, and used it to tie Erik's hands behind his back. He'd believed he was only being restrained, and didn't fight- his struggles earlier had already brought him a cuff around the head. It was only when the rope was pulled up and he was lifted off the ground that he started screaming again. The strain pulled his arms painfully up against the joints and it took all of Erik's strength to keep his joints locked, fighting against the weight of his own body, pulling him down._

_He couldn't keep that position for long, and he now knew that the Nazis would be perfectly willing to leave him there until his arms were torn off completely. He'd held out for as long as possible, but after the horrors and strain of the day, his strength had eventually flagged and his body had fallen, the strain falling on his shoulder, the pain heightening unbearably. He'd tried to pull himself up again, and again he'd fallen. He tried again, but by then his strength, already badly taxed by the horrific day, had finally failed._

_He couldn't pull himself up and had to just hang there, with no company but the muffled Wagner from the German radio and his own ragged breathing. The pain in his shoulders increased until he was screaming again. Next door, he had heard the German soldiers turning up the volume of the radio to drown out his voice._

_Even these years later, he still had nightmares on how it had felt to hang there, feeling his muscles slowly twist and tear like raw meat, and listening to the creaking of his joints as the bones were pulled apart._

_He didn't know if he could have heard the sound his shoulders made when they finally dislocated, because that pain, combined with the agony of having his full body weight put on his already torn muscles, had caused him to black out completely._

He'd woken on the floor, when the Germans had come to cut him down and thrown a bucket of cold water on him to wake him up. Woken to freezing cold and unbearable pain and the sight of his own dislocated arms. It was nothing short of a miracle that the heavy work in Auschwitz hadn't pulled the bones apart again- either that, or Charles was a far better doctor than he let on- but his shoulders had never felt quite the same way again, and when he carried heavy loads- as he did now- the old pain came back, a stabbing ache starting in the small of his back and quickly deepening into the intolerable.

Erik puts down the pail and stretches, rolling his shoulders and flexing his back, trying to work out the insistent, nagging pain. It fades a little, and Erik picks up the bucket again, trying to hold the metal against his chest in an effort not to aggravate the stabbing in his joints.

Charles looks up when Erik walks in, carrying the pail. They haven't been out here for a week yet, and he'd been hoping they would share carrying the water. Judging by how he's holding himself, Erik's shoulders are hurting him horribly. He doesn't say anything, but Charles knows that he's blaming him for the pain. Erik never blames him aloud, but Charles knows him well enough to guess what he's thinking.

_Erik hadn't said 'I told you so' when Charles had woken up sweating and sick that morning, he hadn't needed to. He'd sent him a look that was part accusing, part exasperated and part worried, and that had said more than words ever could._

"I'm sorry." Charles sits up, and pulls the blankets more closely around him. He feels dizzy and slightly nauseous but ignores it. His throat hurts when he speaks above a whisper.

Erik doesn't turn around, only shrugging stiffly in response as he busies himself with the pail.

Charles sighs, "Come here."

Erik looks at him, and he moves away from the side of the bed, inviting him to sit down. Erik growls something indistinct in his mother tongue and drags the bucket beside the bed before sitting down on the edge. He gives a soft groan when Charles starts kneading his shoulders.

Erik's shoulders are like the rest of him, bone covered with paper, tied together with string. He digs between the planes of bone with his thumbs, rubbing up and down and Erik's indrawn hiss of pain is exhaled in a groan. There are tight knots of muscle in his shoulder joints, scar tissue from where the muscles had healed badly.

_They hadn't worked the first few weeks that had spent in Birkenau. Quarantine. They had stayed in their barrack and only come out for roll-call, which could take hours when everyone had to be counted, living and dead. Once they had had to stand for more than a full day and night while the Kapos searched for one elusive prisoner. He and Erik had taken turns to lean against each other and sleep, his head resting on his friend's chest, Erik's on his shoulder. Eventually the man had been found hanging off the electric fence, and Charles suspected there wasn't a man among them that didn't curse his memory for the ordeal he had made them go through._

_But as gruelling as the roll-calls were, it was better than working, and if Erik had been made to work immediately after arriving, his shoulders would have dislocated again. Even afterwards, when Erik had healed as much as he was going to and they were put to work, Charles tried not to imagine what it must have been like to work with his arms in that state._

Erik finally pulls away from his hands, "The water is getting cold." he explains shortly, but there's no bite to his words and Charles can tell when Erik reaches over his shoulder to squeeze his wrist that he's been forgiven.

Charles doesn't particularly want to get himself wet in his condition, but hot water is just too good to miss. He leans over the side of the bed, lying on his stomach to splash his arms up to the elbows. He cups his hands, pouring the water over his bare head to wash away the dirt of the last few days, then again, rubbing over his face. It's a surprise when his fingers touch the stubble on his cheeks and chin.

_He has never had to shave before, although he remembers looking forward to learning how to back in his parents' house. It was a mark of adulthood, and he recalls how he used to watch his father shave, when the man was still alive. Looking forwards to the day when he would do this himself._

And now when the long-awaited moment had finally come, it was more of a nuisance than a point of pride. Charles runs a thumb along his jaw line, trying to get used to the feeling; he's going to have to, since they don't have a razor, mirror or even soap.

He sees Erik watching and smiles, "You?"

Erik shrugs- the motion seems easier than it had earlier- and shakes his head before sitting down next to the bucket. Charles vaguely remembers something he learnt back at university, that starvation or long sickness could delay the body's development.

Charles sits back up and dries himself as best he can on one of the blankets- he feels too hot to have them all on, and they may as well be used.

Erik does the same, washing his face and hands, then cupping them and pouring water over his head, it's the first chance he's had to wash his hair since it's started to grow back, and he runs his hands through it thoroughly before taking of his coat and using the lining to rub it dry. Even partly clean, his hair is an odd colour, not at all like the dark brown Charles remembers.

"You've gone grey," He remarks, reaching out to touch the wet spikes.

Erik looks up at him in surprise, and runs his hand through his hair again, as though he could tell the colour by touching it. Then he shrugs a third time and continues washing his forearms, "And you've gone bald." He replies simply in the tone of someone who can't be surprised by anything any more. "And if it was because of something they to us while we were in the camps, we wouldn't be the only ones."

Charles closed his eyes, it's not the first time they've had this conversation.

_The first time was the day after Charles'__ dream. He was sick and shaking and very glad to be awake, and Erik was trying to understand what had happened. He tried to explain._

_"__I had a dream-"__ He stopped, it was no dream._

_"__A nightmare-"__ It was no nightmare either, and to pass it off as such was an insult to those who had died. He couldn'__t stand to look anywhere near the crematorium that morning._

_"__I felt-"__ Better._

_"__They gassed people last night,"__ He blurted out at last, too loud. He lowered his voice, "__The people from the transport. I felt them die."__ He put his hands to his head, he could still hear them screaming in there. "__I felt was it was like to die."__ He felt sick, so sick that he wondered how he was going to be able to eat anything._

_Erik touched his arm gently, Charles was half expecting his friend to pull away in disgust and tell him he was crazy, but strangely, Erik almost looked relieved._

_"__When they shot my parents,"__ Erik said, his lips thinning at the memory, "__I was there. I was to die with them. They lined us up and shot us, and none of the bullets hit me."__ He looked down at his hands, as though he couldn'__t believe it even now, "__They were standing right behind me, and they couldn'__t hit me, it was as though the bullets bent away from me."__ Then back up, at Charles, "__Is that any less impossible than what you just told me?"_

_When Charles had shaken his head, Erik turned and looked over at the hospital block. "__Do you think they did something to us?"__ He asked, "__In the ghettos, and here? To make us do these things?"_

They hadn't continued the conversation there, because the bell had rung for roll-call and besides Charles wasn't sure how well they could talk about medical experimentation with a shared vocabulary of rough German, bad English and a few scraps of Polish. They had come back to it again though, when they had been able to understand each other better.

"You know what I think." He says firmly. He doesn't believe that Erik's experience and his dreams were a product of some mad Nazi doctor's experiments, for all that Erik does.

_After all, the first time he had seen it work was long before the Nazis could have done anything to him. The dogs, snarling and howling as they tore into his family, then turning to him, cowering away from them. He can remember the terror, the knowledge that he would soon end up like his family, a torn rag-doll in those jaws. He remembers screaming almost instinctively at them to get back, throwing out his arm as if that could stop them._

_And, astonishingly, it had. The dogs had stopped in mid stride, their growls turning to whines. The SS had looked thunderstruck when their dogs had started to back away, no more amazed than Charles was himself._

_He'__d told Erik this, but his friend had just shrugged, asking him if he had a better explanation._

"And you know what I believe." Erik throws his coat over on the other bed, washing his upper arms and the back of his neck. "You saw what they were doing in there, how else can you explain what happened?"

His suspicions are well placed, Charles admits, they've both been in Mengele's laboratory, they've both seen what he was trying to do.

_A young girl, her eyelids pulled back so far that she was crying constantly, a needle in the muscle of her eye to inject dye into the iris…_

_Cutting and knotting veins and muscles, binding two twins together in a grotesque experiment…_

_The living vivisection of a creature unlike anything Charles had ever seen before…_

Charles tries not to shudder, this time it has nothing to do with his illness. He turns his head to the side, watching Erik, "Why would they do that? We were Jews to them, filth of the earth, why were they trying to give us this…" he pauses, unable to think up the right word either in English or any other language.

Erik runs his hands in the water again- it's looking noticeably dingy now, Charles notices. "To avoid testing it on their own precious people," He sneers, "Even if they knew what it would do. They probably didn't, and just thought it would kill us."

Charles rolls over on his back, he's tired and his head is starting to pound, and he doesn't feel like re-hashing this old argument again. The main reason he disagrees with Erik, the reason he thinks his friend- who is rightfully fond of the powers that saved his life, wherever they might have come from- might not like, is that Charles can't imagine who would want to have the power to find out what it feels like to die.

_The second time it had happened he had been awake and if anything, that had made it worse. It had been morning, the faint pre-dawn light brightening into a beautiful sunrise that neither of them was in any state to appreciate. It was late summer, but the mornings were still cold and Charles felt a creeping dread whenever he thought about how it would feel to be here in a few months._

_He felt strange that morning, slightly dizzy and hoped to God that he wasn'__t getting ill- although God didn'__t seem to have been listening lately. They'__d swallowed their breakfast hurriedly, for once eager to get to work. Their command had been ordered to clear out a section of wild ground some miles from the main camp, which had been overrun with brambles. It was relatively easy work, and which would hopefully give them the chance to snatch some of the berries when the guards weren'__t looking._

_'__Better than working at the Sonderkommando,'__ Erik had remarked while they'__d quickly wolfed down their pitiful breakfast, out of the wind behind one of the barracks. '__Two transports this morning, one after the other.'_

_He'__d nodded, it was nothing they hadn'__t already known, since the noise of the trains arriving had woken them each time. _

After his first attack, he'd felt terrified whenever he heard a train pass, wondering if it would happen again. But each time, nothing had happened until he had started to hope that what had happened was a one off - certainly, it hadn't occurred to him at the time to feel anything then but helpless pity for the people who were about to die. And feeling glad that they weren't in the Sonderkommando, who would have to work very fast that morning.

_It had happened when they'__d marched out, he'__d felt groggy that morning, but hadn'__t paid it any attention, with the amount of sleep they usually got, combined with having been woken up twice by the trains, it was nothing unusual. What was strange was that instead of clearing away as he woke up, the grogginess just increased. Still, he hadn'__t realized what was happening until they were marching past the SS and the crematorium lit up._

_It wasn'__t minds he felt, but pain. Pure, unrelenting, unbearable pain. He couldn'__t see, couldn'__t hear. He was cut off from the world by a wall of such pain that he couldn'__t even hold it in his mind, it was too huge. Then the heat, burning heat like the bowels of hell, searing. He could feel his skin peeling back, blackening and crumbling under the flames like burnt paper, he could feel his bones cracking under the heat, marrow dripping and drying and cracking again._

_It stopped, and he was shivering and trembling and Erik was dragging at his shoulder trying to get him to move before someone noticed. Then it came again a wave of devouring flames, and at the crest of it the realization of what was happening._

_Two transports. One after the other. Not enough time. The Sonderkommando had had to work too fast, and most of those they'__d thought dead from the gas were only unconscious. They were still alive when they went to the ovens._

_Then the pain returned, he couldn'__t move, he couldn'__t see anything but the hungry flicker of the flames and hear nothing but the muffled screams of those they were devouring. Charles choked, and opened his mouth to give voice to his own screams._

_A hand clamped itself over his mouth. The touch was like sandpaper on raw nerves, and he tried to twist away, only to be caught by the scruff of the neck by another hand and forced forwards._

_For a moment Charles had thought he was about to fall over, and bit down on the offending hand out of sheer reflex. Then the pain returned and he bit down harder, the taste of blood flooding his mouth a sharp counterpart to the smoke and charred flesh. The screams, the pain, endlessly loud until he wanted nothing more than to cry out in turn. His legs buckled under him, barely holding him up as he staggered forwards. The grip on his neck was like a vice, forcing his head down even as it pulled him forwards. He'__d focused on that, the contrast of real pain; even as his mind screamed at him that he was being burnt alive. It had been the only constant thing he had to hang on to as the pain came again and again. _

_He never knew how long the pain had lasted, only that if it had lasted much longer it would have driven him mad, and as it was he had bitten Erik'__s hand almost to the bone. The pain had started to die the further they went from the camp, and when they were far enough away that there was nothing left but echoes, he'__d dared to look back and watch the ashes blow away._

Erik strips off his clothes quickly, sitting down on his haunches next to the pail and washing as quickly as he can, trying to stay out of the cold breeze that pulls on the closed flaps of the tent. The water might still be warm, but the moment it touches his skin it seems to turn to ice. Shivering, he runs his hands quickly over his chest, wishing he had been able to find some soap. It's the first time he'd been able to wash himself properly since they'd arrived here.

_He'__d wanted to even when they'__d arrived, but after seeing his condition, they had only deloused him, stripped off his clothes and put him to bed immediately. At least, that was what Charles had told him. He only remembered waking up sticky and filthy in the hospital bed, and while he had been able to clean himself off somewhat, he was still sick enough that they didn'__t want to risk getting his whole body wet._

He hadn't felt too understanding at the time, but he's grateful now. Even as it is, when it's relatively warm and he feels stronger than he has for a long time, the cold's enough that he's still shivering hard enough for his teeth to chatter. The water is starting to turn opaque by the time he's started on his legs, and it take Erik a minute to realize that the prickling on the back of his neck is not due to the chill.

He turns around and looks at Charles questioningly. His friend has an odd expression on his face, one Erik can't quite place. "What is it?"

"Nothing." The word comes out a little quickly, and Erik sighs and turned back, feeling slightly embarrassed at being naked in front of his friend- which is absurd, of course. They have no secrets from each other where that is concerned.

_It hadn'__t even been that embarrassing the first time, although that was because they'__d had more to worry about than being naked in front of each other and a dozen other men. After that, they had grown used to it, barely feeling human enough to pay any attention to modesty or shame._

"You're looking better," Charles added, his voice straining a little and breaking into a brief cough.

_Or perhaps once, when Charles had kissed him back and he'__d felt… not exactly uncomfortable, but certainly strange, not sure what to do or say._

Erik does look better, the razor edges of the bones beneath his skin are beginning to look less prominent, the hollows between his ribcage and hips less obvious. His limbs are still more bone that flesh though, the joints seeming swollen in comparison; and now clean, his skin seemed almost translucently pale.

Charles doesn't realize he's staring until Erik turns around, looking quizzical. "What is it?"

He feels a brief bolt of shame at having been caught staring, followed by an even swifter bolt of confusion as to why he should feel ashamed. It's nothing he hasn't seen before and it's the first time- well, almost the first, but that doesn't count- that he's felt as though he should turn away.

_The morning after he'__d kissed Erik, waking up and finding himself sprawled across his friend, suddenly acutely aware of Erik'__s naked body under him. He'__d felt absurdly mortified and wondered if he should move away quickly or stay where he was so as not to wake him. Such an alien fear, compared to that which they lived with every day, so petty and small. He'__d welcomed it, remembering how to feel human for a brief while, a normal person with normal worries, before the bell had rung and his mind slid back into the old pattern of survival. He'__d pushed himself off Erik without a second thought, feeling nothing but his own exhaustion and pain and fear._

"Nothing." He says quickly- too quickly. Erik raises an eyebrow, of course he'd know- Charles sometimes wonders why they bother to speak sometimes- and he doesn't understand why Charles would be bothered either. "You're looking better," He tries to continue, but the strain of speaking catches up with him and something lodges in his throat. He coughs.

Erik shakes his head, as though wondering which God landed him with a friend like this, and dries himself with a blanket before he picks up his clothes from the floor. For a moment Charles can see him debate whether or not to put them on, then he shrugs, and tosses them over on top of his coat- Charles suspects it's more to prove a point than anything else. He drags the pail to one side, and climbs into the bed, lying on his back under the pile of blankets and clothes. Charles watches him for long moments, just studying his face.

_Thin even when they met, only emphasized by the strong chin and nose, and broad cheekbones. Eyes already hollow from the ghettos, the muscles in his cheeks twitching as he ground his teeth against the pain._

_Skin paling in winter, even under the grime and dirt which they'__d had to live with as a matter of course, eyes like blue watch fires under the pale frozen sun, shrouded and seeming too big for his face._

_Lying in the bunk, smiling when Charles kissed him that first time, the skull-face melted by human joy._

_The thin lines of pain and exhaustion in those last few weeks, slack in sickness, taut in delirium._

The edges of his face have filled out a little, the eyes less sunken, cheeks less hollow. He sees Charles watching and again raises an eyebrow, _'__Now what?'_

Considering the circumstances, Charles decides the best response is to lean over to Erik's side of the bed and kiss him. It's the best response he can think of. It still feels strange to kiss, but then this always feels strange in a wonderful way Charles simply can't describe even to himself.

_Often, when they had touched in the camps it had been cold, impersonal. Helping each other when they fell, holding the other up during the interminable roll calls, even when they were crushed close together for warmth in winter it still felt somehow detached, as though the numbness in themselves had come out to infect everything around them. It felt strange to kiss then, to feel that numbness melt like ice pressed to hot metal._

Erik's lips are warm and damp from the water, and his are cold. He can feel Erik smile against his lips, one hand coming up to close over his bare scalp, gently pushing him away. Charles lies down facing him, and Erik rolls on to his side, face to face.

"How do you feel?" Erik's speaking English, it's stilted and unemotional, but he appreciates the effort, he could never manage Polish, and speaking German is always unpleasant.

"Better." It's true; he knows he should worry about Erik getting sick too, but after this long in each other's company a kiss isn't going to hurt.

_Erik had wanted him to stay away when he was sick with typhus, the disease was carried by lice and he hadn'__t wanted Charles to become infected too. In another world, Charles might have laughed at the absurdity. His clothes were so covered in lice that some nights he couldn'__t sleep from scratching. Erik hadn'__t heard the phrase, '__closing the door after the horses have bolted'__ and he didn'__t know if it had an equivalent in Polish, so he'__d simply answered that he wasn'__t going anywhere, and anyway those were their lice, or had Erik forgotten their promise to share everything?_

_In that another world, Erik might have laughed back, but as it was he'__d felt gratified to see a ghost of a smile on his friend'__s face._


	11. Part Three, Chapter three

Chapter three

It's only a few days later that the police come. He and Charles have ventured outside for more than just their meals today, and they're eating an early dinner on the sloping hillside not far from their tents. They'd tried to climb higher but their legs refused.

It was becoming a depressingly familiar pattern, Erik muses, after the endless work of the camps and the terrible march to Belsen, they'd found themselves unable to walk a short distance before exhaustion overtook them. Charles says that they need time to recover, but after being able to force himself to work and walk and stand for longer than he'd thought anyone capable of, it's a shock to find that whenever he attempts this now, his body just refuses to work.

_Just another. Another step, another shovelful of mud, another minute. Then I'__ll stop. Always hanging on to that next moment, the one than never came. Forcing himself to keep going, hoping for that longed for moment of rest like a donkey after a carrot. Just another._

Erik looks down at himself, feeling a burst of irritation that in the end, he can't even control his own body. It's his, however much of a wreck it is, it's his muscles and bones and nerves and skin, and it should do as it's told.

And Charles is smiling at him, he can feel it, and a quick glance over his shoulder confirms it. He doesn't seem bothered by the weakness they have to live with, consoling him that it'll pass given time. How his friend can be so accepting of his own limitations, Erik has no idea, but to him they're a constant frustration. His life has spent too long being out of his own control.

_He can still remember was it was like when he was free, living with his parents in the village, being able to go where he liked, do what he liked. In the ghettos, that was taken away, but even there, his life had still been his own, then even that was taken away and put in the hands of people who, at best, wanted to see him worked to death and at worst simply wanted him dead at once. Never again._

Erik pushes those thoughts away, he can dwell on them later, in the tent when there's nothing to do but stare at the canvas ceiling or re-hash old conversations with Charles in an attempt to distract each other from the memories crowding in on their minds.

The day is deceivingly beautiful, the few clouds only accenting the brilliantly blue sky. The weather's been dry and the grass is a tawny green, and it's warm enough that Erik's finally taken his coat off.

_It had been much like this when he'__d been younger, living in the country. Trees and field and peace. Playing with his sister in the very wood where she would one day leave her life- _Stop.

There must be quite a view at the top of the hill- he derails that train of thought, he doesn't want to think about that again, and concentrates on what Charles' saying.

_The hospital doesn'__t have much contact with the outside world, beside the occasional supply carrier, and the only radio in the hospital had been stolen by someone before they had even arrived. It was only today, when the staff'__s letters finally arrived that the news of the final victory over Nazi Germany started circulating through the grapevine._

"When they forced the door," Charles finishes the story he'd overheard from nurse serving the food, "They found him lying on the floor of the bunker. He'd shot himself, the coward."

Erik feels surprised at this oddly blood-thirsty comment coming for his usually pacifistic friend, but it's not really surprising. Neither of them had ever met Adolf Hitler, but for once he and Charles are in complete agreement that if anyone had ever deserved a bullet through the head, it was him.

"What happened to wanting everyone to get a fair trial?" Erik smiles in cold humour, which fades when Charles sends him a sharp, angry look.

"Don't start." He says shortly, turning away to look over the tents and the hospital.

Erik jerks one shoulder up in idle apology and finishes the last of his meal. It's meat stew today, as it always is on Sundays. He's heard some of the staff mutter that they're in no danger of forgetting the days of the week, seeing at the meals come as regularly as clockwork, with about as much variation. For both of them though, the memory of nearly starving to death is raw enough that they can't imagine complaining.

_There had been no way of telling the date in the camps, particularly by the end. They could tell the time by the quality of the light and could see how the seasons changed, but it was only through the SS guards that they had any idea how much time had passed. They always made sure to set the selections on the holy days of the Jewish calendar. _

_He remembers watching the guards celebrate Christmas every year, the tree they had, and the carols they sang, and the beatings they inflicted on their prisoners in revenge for having to spend Christmas away from their families._

Again, Erik ignores the memories, and focuses his thoughts, like Charles, on the view. The hospital is in a shallow valley between a low, tree covered ridge- part of which they're sitting on- and a long plain, on which Erik can make out the patchwork of fields and a low dot that might be a farmhouse. The only road curls back around the ridge, which is probably the reason Erik doesn't see the truck before it's almost at the hospital gates. It's black and at this distance it reminds him of one of the building blocks his little sisters used to play with, only with wheels. The comparison is vaguely amusing, and helps to push away the other, more insistent reminder.

_The van had also been black, and it had driven up at their old house just after they had left it. Erik remembered watching it drive past them, and wondering with all the innocence of a thirteen year old why his parents had gone pale at the sight. He had realized the truth soon afterwards, when they were in Warsaw. It was the reason his mother had explained to them that they no longer had grandparents._

The van now looks a lot less like a child's toy and a lot more like the Polish police van from his memories. It pulls up by the doors to the hospital, and Erik has to force his hands to unclench from the death-grip they have taken on his bowl. Charles slides down next to him and shakes his head, silently telling him not to worry. His fingers brush his elbow lightly, and he suspects that if they were alone or if the action wouldn't have such negative consequences, Charles might have put an arm around his shoulders or waist as encouragement.

_It'__s a strange luxury, to be able to touch each other without fear. In the privacy- privacy!- of their own tent, there is no one to look on or judge then save God, and Erik hasn'__t believed in him for a long time. To indulge in the kisses that had previously been stolen treasures, and to touch and hug and hold each other as much as they wished was an abundance of riches._

It's absurd to see this newcomer as a threat, but even Charles looks slightly concerned when the van doors open and four men in uniform step out. He doesn't recognize what they're wearing and slowly allows himself to relax. He leans over to whisper "Not SS," in Charles' ear, with a thin smile.

His friend doesn't react, he's tense, and frowning at where the men went in.

"Do you know what they are?" Erik asks, the English is stilted and tense on his tongue, and he probably made a mistake somewhere, but Charles understands anyway and shakes his head.

"They might be soldiers, I don't know, maybe police?" He looks up at Erik as if for confirmation, but he shakes his head, he has no idea.

The men are inside for a long time, and Erik can see other people starting to leave their tents to get a look of these unusual visitors.

_More people had left the hospital for the tents in the last few weeks, leaving only the severely ill or maimed or those too traumatized to look after themselves. He and Charles had little contact with those inside the hospital beyond getting meals or hot water, and never went inside any more. They didn'__t mingle much with those living in the tents either, beyond a few short words of greeting or a nod of recognition._

Charles is just about to suggest risking moving closer to get a better view of what's happening when the doors open again and the men exit, followed by the doctor and a nurse- Charles recognizes her as the one who helped carry them from the truck when they first arrived.

The men spread out on the porch, looking over the tents and various people standing outside, for a moment, Charles feels certain that they're looking in their direction.

_Being marched in front of the SS doctors, naked and shivering and praying to any God who might care that they would not notice him and pick some other poor fool to be sent for the gas. They couldn'__t kill them all and hopefully they would see someone thinner or sicker than him and take them instead. _

_The way he and Erik would always try and find a place behind or next to someone so weak and broken that they would look strong in comparison._

Charles shudders at the reminder, at the fear and at his own despicable behaviour. Erik's staring at the men with narrowed eyes, hiding his own fear behind a mask of anger. As though seeing the emotion was enough to prompt it in himself, Charles feels an answering wave of indignation towards these men. What did they want? Couldn't they leave them alone?

Something is being said. It sounds roughly like German, and though they are too far away to hear the words properly, the familiar sharp syllables are unpleasant to hear, especially now.

The words are repeated, although they sound quite different this time, and Erik sits up a little straighter. "Polish." He whispers in response to Charles' questioning look, "Looking for… something. Can't catch."

"Didn't catch," Charles corrects automatically. He's watching the scene intently and sees the doctor lean closer to one of the men, presumably saying something in an undertone, but he can't even make out the sound of his voice, let alone the words themselves. The doctor points, and for a single, heart stopping moment, Charles is certain it's them he's pointing at. But when the men turn to look, Charles can see that it's not them but one of the tents.

_The chill relief at not being selected, the SS'__ eyes passing over you as though you were nothing but an animal- or rather, a piece of meat that was too stupid to know it was already dead- not speaking, not gesturing you aside, letting you breathe for a few more days. Turning around to see them order aside someone else, someone you would have been happy to see sacrificed in your place a few moments ago but who you now felt ashamed to look in the face._

Three of the men start towards the tent, one staying behind to talk to the doctor. Charles almost starts when he feels Erik's hand cover his. In the long grass, it's impossible to see, but he can't help but worry while the men get closer to where they're sitting. All the same, he's glad for the comfort, and the reassurance that he's not the only one feeling the slow, sinking sensation in his stomach.

_A new contact, this casual comfort._

The sounds are muffled inside the tent, and the men's voices are no more than murmurs, a louder one answers, but again, Charles can't make it out, only that the speaker must not welcome these men any more than they do. Then a shout, making them both jump and Erik's hand tighten painfully on Charles'.

Another man is hustled out of the tent by the first three. Charles doesn't recognizing him, another face in the crowd in this place, someone he had no doubt passed at some point without even giving him a second look. Thin and starved like all of them, and wearing the same rag-tag assemble they all had to put up with; clothes too big, shoes falling off and string used as a belt.

One of the men is holding something- has been holding something from the beginning, but Charles didn't notice- and they're close enough that he can recognize it as the striped shirt of a camp inmate, the same kind of shirt he and Erik had had to wear for three years. One of the men brandishes it at the former prisoner, and this time Charles can see the pink triangle on it.

_The day he'__d been given his shirt, pink triangle. The realization of what it meant. The shame of being branded as such outstripping the fear of how others would treat him- a last gasp of civilization._

For a moment, he's almost blinded by a sense of vertigo at the sight. Of course_, _a thought whispers in the only part of his mind not paralyzed with shock- Erik's voice- of course they would arrest him. It's not as though what they did to him was illegal. He's a homophile, a faggot- like us-

The real Erik isn't speaking, his only reaction to the sight is that his hand clenches down of Charles' with more strength that he'd though possible from such bony fingers. "They can't do that." He says softly.

Charles blinks at him, usually he's the one to deny what they're seeing, as though that would stop it happening.

_"__They can'__t do that."__ The crematorium._

_"__They can'__t do that."__ The beatings._

_"__They can'__t do that."__ The starvation rations._

_"__They can'__t do that."__ The torturous work._

_"__They can'__t do that."__ The endless hours spent in roll call._

He answers the same way Erik always had, "They just did."

Erik looks at him, surprised at having his own words used against him. "No, they _can__'__t_. It's not as though he hasn't suffered enough! Didn't that place count as a prison?" It's just as well the men are now out of earshot, because Erik is no longer whispering.

Right then, Charles has had enough, he starts to his feet, and for a moment he actually believes Erik might just join him, never mind the risks. He actually lets go of Charles' hand and makes to stand, but then slumps back down. "Don't you think we should-" Charles starts, looking back to where the man is being forced away, but Erik shakes his head.

"Not for you." He says, switching back to English from the mish-mash he'd used earlier, and his look answers all of Charles' questions before he can shape them. Not for his sake. They might be registered as Jews here, and brothers, but the hospital staff must already suspect they're lying. He doesn't want to compound the risk by going to the rescue of a man marked as a homophile.

And he's right. Charles realizes. Besides, what can they hope to do? They're as helpless to help as they ever were during the camps. These men, these _police_men, rather, might not be allowed to kill them, but at best they'd just ignore them and at worst, as Erik suggested, they would suspect them of having ulterior motives.

_Most men marked with a pink triangle didn'__t last long in the camps. No one would help them, for fear of being marked with one themselves or just out of sheer prejudice. They were the first to be picked for medical experiments and most often singled out for a Kapo or SS'__ sadistic games._

He wondered how this man had managed to survive, and felt a hot flame of anger flare up inside his chest and sear his throat. This wasn't right. The words were as useless as denying that something was happening, but they wouldn't leave Charles' mind, clamouring that he get up and _do_ something about it. But what? What could he do?

_He'__d seen people taken away for far worse than imprisonment, and done nothing about it. And every time he had felt the same sick twist of guilt, as though by doing nothing- and there was nothing to do!- he shared the blame for the crime._

Erik's face was bleak and expressionless, watching the man being pushed into the van as the doctor and nurse and orderlies and everyone else also does nothing but watch. Not wanting to help if only for fear of being tarred with the same brush.

Coward. The word came back. Coward. For just sitting there and doing nothing, even if there was nothing to be done.

_He'__d never wished death on anyone before the camps, not even when Cain was at his most unbearable or Marko his most violent, and the flames of hate had been alien to him at first, when he'__d first looked at a Kapo or SS guard and wished them dead. But he'__d grown used to it over time._

He'd wanted to believe that people behaved decently in the real world, because if they didn't he might as well be back in Auschwitz. He was right.

_There'__d been a Kapo in one of the blocks close to theirs back in Auschwitz. He'__d been marked down as a criminal- and perhaps he was, but they could all name another reason why he'__d been imprisoned. Erik had been glad he'__d had Charles as an example, because if he'__d based his opinion of homosexuals on this man, he might have ended up agreeing with the Nazis on their account. The SS turned a blind eye to whatever he did, because they were all filth and what did it matter what one animal did to another, whether or not they were willing? It was a disgusting irony that should he and Charles be seen so much as kissing, they would almost undoubtedly have been killed for their humanity, while his man could rape whoever he wanted with not so much as a word of reproach._

_They had never been under his command, something Erik would be eternally thankful for, and had managed to avoid his attentions- although there had been close calls- but of all the Kapos in the camp, his hatred for that one was on a par with that he held for the SS._

Erik reminds himself of that Kapo as he watches the man being forced away, because he hopes this man was like him. Because if he allows himself to believe that he might have been like Charles, he will have to do something to stop those men, regardless of the consequences.

The ground is rough under their feet as they manage gather themselves enough to be able to walk down off the hillside. It wasn't so noticeable going up, but now they're tired and heartsick and every step feels as though it's eating away at their fast-waning energy. Erik slips once and Charles twice, and by the shock of pain at his last fall, he's twisted his ankle. Erik looks at him, and Charles can see how much he wants to help, but doesn't dare, and how much he hates that.

The crowd by the doors is starting to disperse, and the nurse and doctor have both vanished. A few of those they pass are shaking their heads, and more than once Charles hears a few muttered words about the 'faggot'. He grits his teeth, and again the old feeling of being surrounded by enemies returns.

_Prisoners that would throw you into the jaws of the gas chambers to save themselves. Kapos that would beat you to death. SS that would shoot you without a second though._

They walk to the tent from which the man was taken out of, there's a woman outside trying to stitch up a tear in her skirt. She looks up as they approach. Her dark hair is held back with a brightly colored rag, and while she's thin, she doesn't have the skeletal look that still clings to most of the others- and to themselves. Charles wonders if she might be a gypsy, and his hand goes to where the long-healed cut on his cheek had been.

"*What happened?*" He asks shortly, nodding at the gate. The German words feel painful to speak, but it's a language most of the inmates understand.

_They had barely been able to communicate in Belsen, because each of the camps had it'__s own particular dialect, and after almost three years in Auschwitz, the distorted mingling of language used in Belsen was unrecognizable. They had ended up having to use German, the language of their tormentors, just to make themselves understood._

The woman looks up, her face hardening at the words. She shrugs stiffly, "*Not much to tell.*" She answers shortly, the harsh tongue given an odd lilt by her Romany accent. "*I didn't know he was a pervert. I wondered why he didn't look at me when I washed, but I thought he was just being polite.*"

"*Why did they take him?*" Erik asks, the words rolling off even his reluctant tongue more easily that Charles'. "*Was the camp not enough?*"

The woman shrugs again, "*They said it didn't count, the years at the camp. Don't want someone like that around anyway.*" She sends them a suspicious look, and Charles can see her wondering why they're so interested, and the worry that they might be 'perverts' too. Her face becomes guarded, and she stands up; she doesn't come up to Charles' shoulder, clutching her skirt to her as though to protect herself, she quickly retreats inside the tent.

Erik's head drops, and Charles sighs, the last thing they want is to draw attention to themselves, but he wishes he could touch his friend, an arm around his shoulders, a clasp of fingers on his arms. They both need the contact. Erik jerks his head towards the tent and Charles nods. Home. Or about as much home as they can get here. Or anywhere.

Their tent smells musty after being outside, and slightly too hot to be comfortable. Erik goes in and sits down on the edge of the bed, staring at the ground, green-tinged from the light filtering through the khaki canvas. Charles ties the door closed and sits next to him. His hand touches Erik's, closing over the palm and entwining their fingers. He looks down at them, then closes his eyes.

_It was so exhausting, being afraid all the time. He could never allow himself to relax for a moment, because that moment might end up being their last. They had to be constantly on their guard against whatever new threat would present itself, and that wore them out almost as quickly as the work._

He leans a little closer to Charles, it might be a risk but he's so tired it's hard to care any more. He slides his free arm around his friend's waist, it helps in a way, as though they're sharing what energy they have left. Here, the fear isn't so strong. Here, they can relax.

Erik breaths in, and feels anger overtake his emotions, the angry, acidic burn is better that the cold chill of fear and he welcomes it.

_Fear was a weakness. Fear was what made you stand frozen when the gun was pointed at your face, even when every instinct told you to run. Fear sapped your strength until you just wanted to give up so it would stop. Anger kept you strong. Anger kept you working, kept you living a little longer, lent you strength to run and dig and carry under the eyes of those you hated, imagining with every blow of the shovel that you were driving it into their skulls._

"Do you think she was right?" Charles' voice shatters the welcome silence.

Erik rolls his head back, his back is getting stiff and his shoulders are starting to ache, "I don't know. I don't listen to Nazis." He spits, the anger finding a welcome target in the gypsy woman.

His friend looks at him in tired resignation, "Erik, she's not a Nazi."

"She might as well be." He answers firmly.

"Not every prejudiced person is a Nazi."

Erik snorts, and Charles falls into an embarrassed silence; "Anyway," he puts in, "That didn't answer the question."

Erik wonders whether to answer that question fairly or not, but Charles' worrying over this nonsense is just irritating him even more. "And if she _was_ right, and you _are_ a pervert, what would that make me?"

_I love you_ goes unspoken.

It's completely unfair, because he knows that while Charles might occasionally take such insults seriously against himself, he would argue vehemently against them should they be thrown at Erik. It would be rather endearing, if it wasn't so exasperating.

Charles hangs his head, but Erik can see him smiling, and he knows he's won this argument. He could never get angry at Charles, no matter how annoying he might get. He runs his hand over the back of his friend's neck reassuringly, the skin is warm and he can feel Charles shiver at the touch. "Your fingers are freezing." The complaint is half-hearted at best and Erik doesn't move away.

Charles wonders how Erik's hands can be so cold when it's so warm in here, and wonders why he ever bothers to argue with his friend. He always wins, either he argues him down or the argument finishes in a stalemate in which the world will prove him right in the end.

He pulls his shoes off, still leaning against Erik. He can feel his hand running down his back, stroking over his backbone and shoulder blades through his shirt. Charles looks up at him, and smiles a little, grateful for the support.

Erik is still looking at him intently and then, to Charles' surprise, smiles back.

_Charles sometimes wonders what kind of sense of humour Erik had when he was younger and happier, if it was as black and sardonic as the one he knows now. He hopes so, he wouldn'__t like to imagine the damage the Nazis did to his friend'__s soul to turn it that way if it had ever been otherwise. He rarely smiled, and when he did it was usually to some ironic twist fate had seen fit to deal them, smiling at it even while it threatened to destroy them._

There is an element of that in Erik's expression, but it's softer than usual, as though appreciating the irony of a blessing. He places both hands on Charles chest- his fingertips are like ice- and pushes him gently down until he's flat on his back, and lies down next to him, curling up on his side in a position that's probably not at all comfortable, since he's half on this bed and half on the other with the metal edges of both digging into his side. Erik doesn't seem to mind though, and is still smiling when he kisses Charles on the lips.

It's a light touch, but unlike the other times they've dared this, not a brief one. Erik stays still, his face just touching Charles', close enough that he can feel his breath on his skin, the touch as light as feathers.

A sweet warmth blooms in Charles's chest at the contact, he closes his eyes, and lifts his head up to kiss Erik again. It's strange that this should still feel new, but perhaps this is one of those things you can never get used to, and unlike so many such things, it's something you would never _want_ to get used to.

_Stealing kisses, fragments of humanity. Each one an assertion of something that could never be taken away, a reason to carry on under even such burdens. Not lightening them- nothing could do that- but making the goal- survival- worth more than giving up._

When he opens his eyes, Erik's face is so close that the first thing he sees are his eyes. His eyes are strange, blue shot through with grey, and Charles wonders if in time they will also turn fully grey, like his hair. He lifts one hand and runs his fingers through the fine strands. They're soft, no longer prickly, and Charles can feel the warmth of Erik's skin under them. He strokes his hand down to the back of his neck, and feels his friend tense.

_Erik had never liked being touched there, even if it was something as innocent as throwing an arm around his neck to be helped back to the block when he couldn'__t walk another step. It was a vulnerable spot, where the German soldiers tried to aim for when they shot to kill._

Charles doesn't remove his hand, instead running his fingers up and down the soft skin, feeling the knobbles of his backbone and the short strands of hairs, stroking over and over again until Erik starts to relax. Then he kisses him again.

Erik's fingers brush against his cheek gently, and Charles can't help but smile against his lips. This feels lovely, and strange because he's forgotten how to feel pleasure like this- and maybe he never really knew anyway. The broken-down bed creaks when Erik lays his hand by Charles head, he pulls back briefly to steady himself, and Charles reaches up, wraps his arms around Erik's neck and shoulders, and pulls him back down.

He's not very strong, but neither is Erik and in the end he doesn't want to put up a fight, allowing himself to be pulled back down, resting his head in the crook of Charles' neck. Erik's weight -slight as it is- still feels rather heavy, but it's comforting, and his sharp edges are smoothed out by the layers of clothes and skin. He feels Erik's lips move against his skin, although he can't make out what- if anything- his friend is saying.

The strange, long-lost flame of joy warms him from the inside out, and for the first time, Charles feels what he's been expecting to feel for more than a month. Relief.

It's as though he's finally letting go of an enormous weight, one that sometimes felt as though it were going to crush them both. A warm burst of energy as the realization really sets in that they're alive. Enough to forget for a while the fears that still lurk outside their tent, and to ignore the dangers that are only waiting for them to slip to strike again.

He closes his eyes, and lowers his head until Erik's hair is tickling his nose, and this time he feels him smile. He wonders if Erik is feeling the same thing? Probably, it wouldn't surprise him, because they are here, they are together and they are alive. And if they've survived this, then what has the world left to throw at them? Through hunger and pain, thirst and sickness, death and terror, hell and high water they're still here. Together. The realization is exhilarating.

They might not be safe, Charles knows better than to try and believe that, particularly after today. They could still be separated, or their true relationship found out, or- God forbid- the staff could find out about his dreams. Perhaps the rest of the world isn't like this, but Charles knows it'll be a long time before he will feel safe with anyone other than Erik. But they are here, together, and what can the world possibly do to them that could be worse than what they've already survived?

He knows his friend shares his thoughts when his arms come around him and he's being held in turn, warm lips on his own. Warm and safe and more real than any world he had ever dreamt of. Warm. Real. Safe.

"I really love you." He whispers, as if wanting to confirm something that never needed confirming. Again, he feels Erik smile.

"I know." He feels the reverberation of Erik's words against his lips, they tickle.

"You should keep away," He continues, feeling giddy and knowing that Erik will do no such thing, "If someone comes in, they might see."

"Rather late for that." This time Erik kisses his forehead, his hands cupping his face, thumbs rubbing over the cheekbones. Charles' hands comb through his hair again.

This time Charles pulls away. There is no irony in Erik's smile, and instead of highlighting the gauntness of his face, this smile gives Charles an idea of who Erik might have been, before the world fell in on top of them. Then his lips pull back over his teeth in a smile that's all savagery, and Charles returns it, the electric pulse of triumph flowing through them both. "It's done." He whispers, "It's over, it's finished." It still feels surreal, stating the known, the obvious, just for the sake of stating it, of drawing a definite line under this most horrible chapter of their lives and acknowledging that it is indeed over at long last.

Erik doesn't answer with words, words aren't enough to mark this end. Instead, he pulls Charles' head down and kisses him again, firmly, with the promise of all the other kisses that will be able to share.


	12. Part Four, Chapter one

Part four, chapter one

The aid packs arrive the next day- Thursday, potatoes and cabbage- boxes of clothes and luxury food and a new radio for the hospital. The food and radio are taken quickly into the hospital, they probably suspect that they'll be stolen if left outside, Erik thinks. The radio has nothing to fear, it's worthless to them, but they're right about the food.

He and Charles watch as the supplies are unloaded from the back of the army truck. The boxes are pine and plain cardboard, but a few of them are open, and what's inside makes Erik's mouth water. Chocolate, butter, good white flour, wrapped meat- he suspects it's pork, but who cares at this point?

_It didn__'__t bother him because he hadn__'__t believed in god since his little brother died. They never found his body, but had the funeral anyway. Moshe Lehnsherr, died third of March nineteen forty one. A rabbi friend of his mothers had come, and listening to them, praying for the soul of his lost brother, Erik had known it was a lie. God hadn__'__t looked after Moshe when he had been out stealing food, hadn__'__t looked after his sister when she was raped and he probably wasn__'__t looking after him now. He certainly wasn__'__t looking after Erik, and he didn__'__t know why he should bother worshipping a god who quite obviously didn__'__t care in the least about his __'__chosen people__'_

_He hadn__'__t said anything afterwards, and paid lip-service along with his parents because it was easier than not to and they__'__d had other things to worry about._

He sees no need to do that here. The only person who would see it would be Charles, and he was a Christian and wouldn't care.

Erik glances at Charles, his friend's eyes are on the boxes of food, bright with hunger, the scabby skin at his throat rolling as he swallows.

_The cuts there are his fault, they had eventually found a razor for his friend to shave with, blunt and notched, but no mirror. He__'__d been Charles__'__ mirror, doing his best not to cut his friend and stumbling apologies when he inevitably slipped. And when he had started to need to shave, it had been Charles holding the sharp blade against his throat, and it never occurred to Erik to be afraid._

Charles catches Erik's gaze and they share a glance, calculating. The kitchens are on the ground floor, it would easy to climb through a window and raid the cabinets. Hiding the food after the staff starts looking for the thieves might be hard though.

_He__'__d been used to hiding food, after the ghetto, but Charles wasn__'__t. His friend hadn__'__t said much about his life before the camps, language had been hard to begin with, but he__'__d guessed his friend came from somewhere where you didn__'__t have to worry about being hungry. When they had been given the ham from the Canada thief, Charles had wanted to eat it all immediately. He__'__d made him wait, and when they had been forced out on roll-call for a full day- no food or water, and if it hadn__'__t been raining the salty ham would have been more torture than blessing- Charles had agreed._

Erik suspects they aren't the only ones hoarding the food they get. It's pointless, they won't starve here, but some habits are just too hard to break.

Those unloading the supplies are careful with the food, but the boxes of clothes are thrown out wholesale, some splitting open when they hit the ground. None of the men in the truck will look at them, any of them, keeping their eyes on their work or on the ground. Occasionally one will look over at the hospital, where one of their number disappeared when they arrived. They don't talk.

"_Volk."_ Erik turns; the man who's spoken is one of the German Jews from a tent close to theirs. He grins at them, the sight of his yellow teeth making Erik wonder about the state of his own- he hasn't owned a toothbrush since before the ghetto. "_Reichsdeutscher. _German citizens. In Dachau, they brought them into the camp, made them see what they'd done. Made them help." He grins again, appreciating the irony. "They're making them help again."

Erik turns back to the men unloading the truck, trying to suppress the feeling of being surrounded by enemies. No one's looking at them, and he reaches out to touch Charles' arm gently. It always surprises him how warm his friend's skin is. Warm and comforting. Charles glances at him and smiles tightly, then turns back to watching the Germans warily, as though he's expecting them to draw guns and shoot them down at any moment. After three years, it's a hard habit to shake. Erik spreads his fingers, curling them around Charles' upper arm. His friend looks at him again, his smile more natural this time, and reaches over with his free hand to touch Erik's fingers. Erik smiles, and wishes he could kiss him. The touch is comfort enough, but the intimacy of a kiss would be wonderful.

_Charles__'__ skin was as warm under his lips as under his fingers. It was their first day in the tents, and they were still getting used to the idea of actually having privacy. It felt wonderful to be able to sit there, out of sight of the world, and just kiss, something so dangerous outside that they so often barely dared to touch. He__'__d kissed his friend__'__s cheek first, smooth skin, then Charles had turned and their lips had touched. Kisses, slow, unhurried. Charles' arms around his waist, his fingers tracing circles on his side, his on Charles__'__ neck. He smiled into the kiss, one hand reaching up to run over Charles__'__ scalp, breathing again only when his friend drew away._

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The last of the boxes are out, and the men climb back into the truck, and drive away.

Had this been a concentration camp, Charles knows, they would have been fighting over the boxes before they were even out of the truck. But they aren't the only ones caught in the hospital's spell of security, and no one moves at first, stupefied by that comfort.

Erik stirs, taking a half-step towards the crumpled pile, then glancing back at Charles. _Shall we?_ Charles doesn't need the dreams to read Erik's mind, gives a small smile and joins his friend in picking through the boxes.

Most of the clothes are worn and ragged. Donations from war-torn people thinking some good might still come from their castaways. Stains and patches, tears and stray threads spill from the battered cardboard boxes. Some of the boxes wear stamps from Britain or America, but some are bare. In one of the anonymous crates he find a dull brown jacket with a discoloured patch where the star once was, Charles wonders if it still smells of ash.

They all avoid these boxes of the dead. In a crate from France, Charles finds a pair of stout leather walking boots about his size, and he allows himself a smile. He's been wearing a pair of shoes two sizes too small, and it would be nice to wear something that doesn't hurt his feet.

_Erik had offered him his boots in that first winter, but even if he__'__d been as cruel and desperate as to take them they wouldn__'__t have done him much good. It was only chance that they__'__d fitted Erik so well, and his feet were much smaller than his friend__'__s. He wouldn__'__t have been able to walk._

_Instead, he__'__d worn the splintering clogs that had been thrown at him on their first day in the camps, rough hewn and almost impossible to walk in. The first few months had been torture, splinters driving under his nails and the soles of his feet before the skin had toughened. Even the pain had did to a dull ache, he tried not to walk, and in a way it had been a blessing that the walk from Auschwitz to the train had been in winter, when he -couldn__'__t- feel his feet._

Erik's been digging in a box, it's stamped, but Charles can't read the language. He straightens, and tosses Charles a coarse, faded khaki jacket with a hood. It's much too big but Charles puts it on anyway, smiling gratefully at Erik. His friend knows how self-conscious he is about being bald- _God, wasn__'__t the number enough? That he__'__ll have to go around ever after looking like a camp inmate?-_ and was probably on the look out for something to hide it. Charles pulls the jacket on despite the day's warmth and the musty smell, and draws the hood over his head.

Erik smiles at him, amused at how he looks, then picks up a loose woman's blouse, tangled in a sleeve are twisted pieces of metal on a length of chain. Charles doesn't know what it's meant to be but Erik obviously likes it and put it on. The pendant's been scraped raw in places and the sliver-white seems blindingly bright contrasted with the dull grey of the rest of the metal. The sharp reflections of sun on metal are cruel to Erik, highlighting the sunken flesh of his hands and face, the sharpness of his cheekbones and the way the tendons in his neck stand out. Only his eyes are flattered, the gleaming flecks silver on blue grey.

_It was odd, he had rarely thought about how Erik looked. He wasn__'__t beautiful, or ugly, he was just Erik; someone so far removed from everything that appearance meant nothing any more. He noticed when he was tired, that he looked better now, his expressions and his moods, but aesthetic appreciation had passed him by._

Erik looks at him curiously, feeling his eyes on him. Charles reaches out and touches the shards of metal hanging from the necklace. The edges are sharp where they were snapped off, and already warm from Erik's touch.

_Erik loves metal. Charles envies him this, that connection. He used to feel that once, towards people, until that was betrayed in the most horrific way possible and their very minds attacked him. Metal has never betrayed Erik like that._

The necklace seems oddly fitting, the dingy grey matching his hair, the white edges the metallic flecks in his eyes.

_Broken, like both of them._

Charles snatches his hand back, forcing himself away from the easy intimacy of his friend's presence.

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Charles eyes flicker, blink, look from side to side. Erik knows that fear, has felt it often enough himself. The shards of metal are sharp when his hand clenches around them. Sharp, cold, familiar, real.

_The sharp, jagged edge of a spade._

Erik lets go of the metal, and tries not to look to obvious as he looks around. No one is looking at them; they're all too busy digging through the piles of rags, the old frenzy in their eyes, trying to be the one to find something useful before someone else did.

They remind Erik of flies squabbling over a corpse, and he has swallows his pride-_ an easy thing now-_ to join them. They do need clothes, and if all he finds is useless, then they can perhaps find something that can be traded for what they need.

'_Organisiem__'__. Organizing. The most important word in the camp. To trade anything- anything- for what you desperately needed. The second winter, Erik remembered Charles trading some stolen bread for a few pieces of paper. Paper Charles could use to line his shoes and stave off frostbite. A ragged shirt swapped for a place on the top level of a bunk- hard, since he had to buy space for Charles as well. Some broken shell-casings from the SS__'__ guns for a pair of gloves._

Charles doesn't join him; Erik glances at him and picks up a box. Even though it's full of cloth it feels heavier than it should. He turns it upside down and clothes tumble out onto the muddy ground. Erik kicks aside a decaying pair of trousers, and picks up a plain shirt. It was probably once meant to be white, but it's now a dirty grey. The fabric's good though, and unlike so many others it doesn't look about to unravel. Under a dress that more closely resembles a bed sheet, Erik finds a second, a button-down shirt which he throws to Charles.

His friend catches it, but doesn't respond, just looking at him, and Erik frowns.

_Charles wouldn__'__t have lasted long by himself. Neither would Erik, in the state he was, but Charles wouldn__'__t have understood the laws of the camp before it was too late. He wouldn__'__t have understood that there were no laws, and would have ended up starving or being shot before long. He remembered the look on his friend__'__s face when he__'__d first stolen from a fellow inmate. And ugly scene, the man had been in the camp longer than they had and had fought to keep hold of the bread Erik was trying to take from him. But he__'__d been stronger, even with his torn shoulders, had grabbed the bread and run, snarling at Charles when his horrified friend didn__'__t follow at first._

They may not be in the camp, but they certainly can't afford to turn away anything that comes their way. The clothes on their back are the only ones they own, and they are ragged and ill-fitting. That Charles would still try and hold himself above this irritates him. Is he going to look down on him for this?

Charles meets his eyes, and for a moment they just look at each other, their unspoken words heavy in the air. Erik sighs, and Charles looks away, and they compromise. He picks up one box, his friend another, and they move into the shadow of the hospital. They need to do this, but if preserving a little dignity is so important to Charles, even now, it's the least Erik can do.

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After three pairs of mismatched socks- all black, so it's not noticeable- a pair of loose khaki pants about Charles' size, two underpants that might be salvageable after a wash, and two pairs of trousers- one faded grey, the other black with a hole in one knee and Charles thinks that they might be passable. It was nothing he'd want to meet his rich grandmother in, but it would be nice to wear clothes that made him feel human again, rather than the worn threads they've been wearing recently.

_Or the striped rags he been thrown the first day in Auschwitz. The pants fit, but the sleeves of the jacket clung halfway up his arms, while the rest was too loose to provide warmth. The shirt was the worst though. Not because it stank of death, or because it was badly torn or even because it was bloodied along the back around the gunshot rips that had killed the previous owner, but because of the triangle. The pink triangle that marked him out as the lowest of the low. All because of his stepbrother__'__s mindless insults. He thought he was going to be sick._

Charles shakes himself, then eases himself to the ground. His feet are starting to hurt and it's tiring to stand for so long. Erik absently tries to sit on one of the discarded boxes, but even his frail weight is too much for the cardboard, which folds under him with a faint sigh. Charles can't help it, he snickers. Erik tries to glower, then smiles self-deprecatingly. They look at each other.

"I can't do that!" A voice suddenly snaps out.

Charles jumps, and Erik's head snaps around, both craning around to stare at the window above their heads where the voice has come from. With a jolt, Charles realizes it's the same window that stood over their bed inside the hospital.

_There was nothing to do in the hospital, and watching Erik just made him feel sick with fear. His_

_friend got better after each injection, then slumped back into exhausted unconsciousness soon after. The fear that he would never recover, that the nurses would eventually give up and refuse to waste any more medicine on him. He__'__d stared out of the window, trying to distract himself from the fear and the memories. It had been frightening at first, seeing the army outside. So many guns, so many bullets. It was impossible to have looked so many times down the barrel of a gun and not be terrified of them._

"They can't stay here forever." A different voice this time, more reasonable.

"Where are they meant to go? Especially in the state they're in! _You_ have to understand that." The doctor's voice, harsh.

"I'm not saying they have to leave _now, _just that you need to make plans for the future. _Get _them ready to leave. Encourage them to think of leaving. You've gotten some of them out of the hospital, get more of them out."

"They have to stay here, because they can't cope outside. The girl is barely managing as it is, she can't look after herself."

The voices grow fainter, moving away from them.

"They're not going to get better at coping cooped up in here. If the girl isn't improving, maybe moving her outside might help."

The doctor sighs, and his next words are more like a whine, "Where can we expect them to go?"

"They came from somewhere, when they're well enough, they'll be able to go back there."

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The way back is slow, Charles' shoes are clearly really starting to hurt him, but it's the words they have heard that weigh them down like stones.

_To go back._

_There__'__s little Erik can be sure of in this world, but one of those is that he never, as long as he lives, wants to go back to Poland. It isn__'__t the memories- he carries those with him wherever he goes- or the fear of the places, the ghetto and the woods and the camp, but of the people. It__'__s the laughter of their neighbours when they were thrown out of their home. It__'__s the police who shot his grandparent. It__'__s his sister__'__s old boyfriend who spat at her in the street. It__'__s the people who jumped at the change to degrade and hurt and even kill them the moment the Nazis gave them the opportunity. Because while the Nazis might be gone, these people will still be there._

But when Erik sees the doctor and a nurse half-helping, half-carrying a delirious girl into the tents and leaving her there, her moans muffled by the canvas, he can't help but wonder if they might be here too.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Charles drops the ragged pile of clothes on the floor and collapses backwards across the beds, curling up on his side and dragging off his shoes with a growl, throwing the things against the tent wall in vindictive pleasure.

Erik glances at the canvas, then at the tent pole to make sure nothing has slipped or overbalanced, then sits down next to Charles. "Your feet hurt?"

Charles rolls onto his back, "Yes. These shoes are too small. It's not bad when I don't wear them for too long, but-" He waves a hand, and Erik nods, he's been on his feet far too long.

Erik glances at him, for Charles- who doesn't want to worry Erik as much as Erik never wants to worry him- to admit that he _might _be in pain shows that it really does hurt. The throwing of the shoes alone is evidence enough. "You won't have to wear them again," he offers, resting one hand on Charles' calf. The muscles are tense from the exercise of walking around all morning, and he traces them idly with his fingers.

_Charles__'__s fingers, those first few weeks after they met. Tracing out the taut, slowly healing muscles of his shoulders before digging in, trying to soothe the intolerable pain that built there after standing on roll-call all day. Guided by nothing but Erik__'__s grunts of pain and his own knowledge of the human body._

Erik pauses, remembering. He runs his finger along the muscle from knee to ankle, more firmly this time.

"Hmm." Charles smiles, and Erik takes that for assent, lifting Charles' foot from where it's hanging off the bed and starts stroking along the top of it. His knowledge of anatomy is poor, but he can feel the way the tendons are supposed to be. He pushes down more firmly with his thumb, running down from ankle to toes.

"Erik, what are you doing?" Charles tries to sit up and draw his feet away, but Erik won't let him, taking hold of both ankles.

"Your feet hurt." Erik explains. If Charles can't understand that simple answer then there's no point in explaining further.

"That doesn't mean you have to give me a foot rub." Faintly exasperated.

Erik looks up, "You've helped me when I couldn't stand straight. Allow me to help you when you can't walk." A small smile pulled at his lips and he starts again, rubbing circles on the instep with his thumb.

Charles frowns, "I don't have any trouble walking Erik, and you don't need to do this." Again he tries to pull away.

Again, Erik doesn't let him. Why was Charles being so stubborn about this? _He__'__s_ certainly never turned down backrubs, even when he _could_ stand straight. Why in the world was Charles complaining?

_The incredible pain when Charles__'__ fingers found the raw, knotted tissue and tried to smooth it out, the rawness almost welcoming after the dull, draining pain of before._

The memory makes Erik pause, "Am I hurting you Charles?" He asks softly.

Charles sighs and flops back on the bed, head almost hanging off the far side. "No Erik, it feels fine, just…" He trails off, then sighs.

Erik recommences, rubbing his fingers along the arch of his foot. "Just what?" He says; hard, calloused pads under his toes, the nails worn ragged by boots and clogs. Charles growls something incoherent and tries to pull away. A flash of annoyance. "Charles, what _is_ the matter?"

"You don't have to do this." Charles pulls himself up on his elbows.

It's Erik's turn to sigh, the conversation is going nowhere. "No, but I _want_ to. You are in pain. I want to help. Is that simple enough?"

"Do you really want to?" The irony in his Charles' voice more closely resembles that Erik hears in his own. It doesn't sound right coming from him. Besides, the words make no sense.

"Do you _really_ want to help me when my back hurts?" Erik challenges. It occurs to him that if Charles were to say 'no', it would be the most hurtful thing Erik has heard for a long time. Charles is the only person he can bring himself to trust, the only person he has left to love. To find out his friend was helping him out of some sort of obligation would be incredibly painful.

Luckily, he knows Charles better than that. His friend sighs, and Erik knows he's backed him into a corner. "I always want to help you. I hate seeing you in pain."

_And God knew, that had been a common sight since they__'__d known each other._

Erik smiles, but it fades quickly when Charles takes advantage of his distraction and pulls his feet away, sitting up and tucking them under him. Erik sighs, he doesn't even feel irritated any more, only tired. He really doesn't have the energy it takes to go dancing around whatever it is that's bothering Charles. "I don't like seeing you in pain either. I do actually want to help you." He puts a hand on Charles' thigh, coaxingly.

Charles doesn't answer, and it occurs to Erik then that whatever is bothering his friend must be more painful than he'd thought, because Charles isn't answering or looking at him, and actually pulls away, hugging his knees. His lip is thinned on the left side, a sure sign that he's biting it, and his hands are clenched harder than they need to be. He's not about to cry, but whatever it is is hurting him more than he's let on.

Erik slides his legs onto the bed and pushes himself back until he's next to Charles, and starts rubbing his back gently. Obviously Charles doesn't mind him doing that, because he doesn't push him away or draw back, only closing his eyes and sighing "I'm a mess."

Again, Erik feels a smile pulling at his lips, "So am I." He agrees, running his hand up and over Charles' head; the bare skin is warm against his palm. This time he's gone too far and Charles pulls away. "What is it?" Erik frowns.

Charles shakes his head. He's smiling too, hollow and empty. He knows how absurd his behaviour is. "I look terrible." He says flatly. "I don't like it when you touch me." He clenches and unclenches his hands. "I _feel_ terrible then. It's bad enough that I have to look at myself." One hand runs over his head, bald, a memento of the camps he'll have to carry along with the number. "I'm sorry."

So's Erik. He doesn't know what he can say, or even if he has the words to explain the rush of emotions Charles' words prompt. Sorrow for his friend, for both of them, anger at what has been done to them. Irritation, at himself for his blindness and at Charles for not being stronger, and finally empathy. Charles isn't the only one to have flinched away from his reflection in the window or water pail or the other's eyes, the only mirrors they have.

_It__'__s not even just physical, although that__'__s part of it. The few glimpses he__'__s been able to make of his reflection show a stranger__'__s face, and when he remembers how Charles looked when they first met, he finds it hard to reconcile the image of the healthy, delicately featured boy with the gaunt, bald figure standing in front of him. Losing his hair suited him, oddly enough, accentuating his fine bone structure and large eyes. Or at least it did, before those bones became far too obvious and those blue eyes dull and haunted._

_Because that__'__s the worst part, because right now every feature on their faces recalls what they__'__ve suffered. Hunger and desperation and loss written in prominent bone, every scar, every stretch of skin._

But Erik doesn't have the words to explain this, some of those words don't exist and others he never _wants_ to know, so he does the only thing has left, and puts his arms around Charles.

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Charles gives a tired little sigh and turns into the embrace, tucking his head under Erik's and turning an innocent hug into something more intimate. His arms creep around Erik in turn and for a moment he's reminded of those old movies he used to watch before- before. He remembers how often he saw the hero holding the heroine exactly as Erik is holding him now. He wondered how strange it must look to see two _men_ like this.

_Charles wonders about it sometimes. He had a girlfriend once, when he was studying in England and Marko was planning his sister__'__s rescue, and while he had some idea what to do with her if the time came -which it didn__'__t- he has no idea what to do with Erik beyond some crude jokes and the horrible memories of what the kapo did to those men- which he would really rather forget. For the time being, their bodies are in no state to do anything but kiss and cuddle, but… though Charles has no idea what sex with a man would be like; when simple touching is sweet and kissing a dream, sex with Erik must be wonderful._

So no, not so strange at all, Charles thinks, smiling against Erik's shirt. It feels good, and safe, and normal in a wonderful way he can never quite get used to. This is how it's meant to be, with them together, warm and safe and well fed. With Erik's lips pressed to his head and Charles's to the hollow of his throat. Safe. Warm. Safe.

Charles doesn't move, doesn't _want_ to move, so his voice is rather muffled when he asks, "Do you think we should leave?"

If Erik is disturbed by this shift in conversation, he doesn't show it. "Can't we stay here?" his voice is slow, ironic, the stifling accent only emphasized, although his English has been improving. Then, "Where is here?"

Charles shrugs, feeling the weight of Erik's arms on his shoulders. He doesn't want to know. If he does, it'll make everything more real, because if he knows that, he'll know where Belsen is, and Auschwitz, and then those places will exist as more than memories.

Besides, he doesn't want to think about it, he's already pretty sure they're in Germany.

_It__'__s surreal to think it all started here. That somewhere in this country, someone sat down and drew up the plans for Auschwitz and Belsen and Dachau and all those other places, organized trains to pick up innocent people and bought the barracks and the gas and the ovens. Here. Someone here did this. And it was here that the Nazis found and trained the guards that terrorized them in the camps. Here that they found the dogs that killed his family. Here that they made the guns that killed Erik__'__s._

_He doesn__'__t want to think about it, he__'__d never sleep at night._

"Where can we go?" he says instead.

_It__'__s not just here, it__'__s everywhere. That fear. The comforting child__'__s blanket of trust that the world is basically good and trustworthy was torn away in Auschwitz, revealing the horror and madness of the world for all to see._

How can they leave this safe place, this oasis of sanity, knowing the terrors that wait outside, the monsters that wait inside human flesh? The can no more fight them now than they could in the camps.

Erik's rubbing his back, but Charles can feel how tense he is, his hands are hard, his pulse beating rapidly against Charles' cheek. "It's not safe here either," he whispers, and once again Charles wonders if he's not the only one who can read minds.

He thinks of the man taken away, and shudders. Not now, not here, not me, not Erik.

Not again.

Then Erik proves he can't actually read minds and kisses Charles' forehead again. "They sent that girl away." He rubs his face, "She couldn't look after herself and they sent her out of the hospital. They'll send the others out too, soon. They don't care where they send us."

Charles pulls away slowly, and stretches out his cramping legs, and is relieved when Erik makes no attempt to continue the foot massage. As nice as it had felt, he felt too filthy, too ugly to be touched in such an intimate way. So odd, that this was off limits when the far more intimate and tender act of kissing wasn't. "They don't want us as their problem." He answers Erik's question.

"They shouldn't have _made_ us their problem!" Erik releases Charles and sits back. The anger is burning off him, but Charles can see the old pain in his eyes, the old betrayal. A small part of Erik is still reeling from what has been done to them, the innocent outrage of a small child that even Auschwitz hasn't been able to crush. Charles hopes he'd had a part in keeping that part of Erik alive, that no matter how easily Erik dismisses the hope Charles offers, part of him wishes for it, despite how impossible it might seem. "They should help us! They should find us somewhere to stay, give us money, or-" Erik's breaks off, and he grinds his fists into his eyes. No amount of compensation will ever make up for what's been taken away from him.

He's nineteen, Charles realizes. In America, he'd be barely able to vote, not allowed to drink. He's always seemed so much older.

Charles is eighteen, but he feels five years old. Five, and knowing that the monsters under the bed are all too real. He wonders how old Erik feels.


	13. Part Four, Chapter two

Part four, chapter two

_The screams dragged him back to reality and for one horrified heartbeat; Charles thought it had happened again. But though his whole body hurt it was __his__ pain, that which he lived with daily, rather than someone else__'__s._

_Then he saw the lights._

_The searchlights in the camp were always burning, but there seemed to be more of them than usual tonight. And still his ears rang with the screams. Whenever the routine in the camp was interrupted these days, it was always met with excitement rather than fear, but tonight, Charles felt nervous. The screams heralded nothing good._

_At the first crack of a gunshot, fear kicked in full force and Charles was wide awake. He forgot the splitting pain in his back and the clenching claw of hunger in his stomach, and the way his head spun when he sat up. Erik was already awake, unsurprisingly, and was leaning dangerously far out of the narrow bunk, craning to see out of the grimy window. The dazzling searchlights glared through the glass and threw his face into sharp relief, the dirty shadows tracing impossible tattoos across his taut skin. If it wasn__'__t for the sharp spike of pain in his shoulders as he crawled over next to his friend, Charles would have wondered if this was a very strange dream._

_Erik__'__s head snapped around, the same short, jerky motions he had been affecting lately. Charles raised his eyebrows in question, but Erik shrugged one shoulder in a half desperate, half helpless gesture- he had no idea._

_Charles could pick out the distinctive voices now, women and woman and children. Some just howling and wailing incoherently, others shrieking in a tongue Charles had never heard before, or jabbering in German, probably directed at the guards. They were answered with snarls and shouts, and more gunfire. Charles started to shake at the sound of their dogs. He was on the top bunk, they couldn't get him. _

_Erik braced himself with one hand on the windowsill and tried to reach over to comfort Charles. Six months ago, he might have managed, but now his arm gave way. His balance lost, Erik slipped off the bed with a shriek and an answering cry from those he landed on. On any other day, that would have caught the attention of the Kapo, but tonight… what was one more scream?_

Charles opens his eyes, his ears hurting from the din. For a moment it's impossible to differentiate from dream and reality, and he closes them again tightly, covering his ears against the gypsies' screams-

Gypsies?

How did he know that? It hadn't been until the next morning that they realized it had been they who had been taken that night- _the fear of waiting in the dark, uncertain if it would be their barrack that would be the next one raided and fed to the gas chambers-_ but how did he know that if-

Charles opens his eyes again, the real world reasserts itself. He is in the tent, in the hospital. There are no searchlights, just a pitch-blackness than looks no different viewed with eyes open or closed. The constant aching pain is gone, replaced with the bone-deep weariness that never seems to fade no matter how much he sleeps. And the screams are only one scream now. A long, drawn out howl that seems to come from only one throat. Charles sits up, rubbing at his useless eyes and feels Erik turn over next to him, his friend groans slightly as he wakes, then tenses instantly and practically springs upright to confront whatever threat faces them. Charles reaches out instinctively to steady him.

_Charles grabbed the thin bundle that was all they owned, eased himself off the bed and dropped jarringly to the floor. His legs tremble warningly beneath him. Erik looked shaken, and the constant screams around them aren__'__t helping, but when Charles looked at him he inclined his head, he wasn't hurt._

Erik shifts. Charles can't see his expression, but he hears the slow exhalation and feels him relax under his hands, and when Erik breathes in again, he hears the slight hitch of irritation. The scream is breaking now, cracking and growing hoarse. A woman's voice, Charles realizes. High-pitched and hysterical. Another voice joins in, a man's voice, and shouting words- "Shut up!"

_Charles helped Erik to his feet, and started the painfully slow climb back into their top bunk, but as soon as his fingers closed on the wood of the frame, a hand came down and struck them. Charles lost his grip, and fell back down, and this time it was Erik who caught him. The men in the bunk below them had stolen their place, and it was absurd that now, in this situation when he didn__'__t know if they would be the next ones taken, that this would so anger him. He wanted to shout and demand that they leave, but even if they could hear him over the din, it wouldn__'__t make any difference._

The screaming stops, Charles hears what sounds like a strangled sob, then it starts again, so high and piercing that it feels as though his head is splitting in half. He pushes himself off the rickety bed and stands up. The night air is like ice against his bare skin, and the tent is so dark that he has to make his way to the opening by memory alone. Luckily, it's been almost a month since they moved out here, and he could do this while wearing a bag over his head- which he may as well be doing.

_It hadn__'__t been quite as dark, between the searchlights and the hand-held torches the SS were waving everywhere, but it didn__'__t help much. One moment the barrack was in full glare of the search lamps and everything was so bright Charles couldn__'__t see, then it was gone and he was equally blinded by the afterglare._

Outside isn't much better; although it's a clear night, the moon is little more than a finger-thin sliver in the night sky, and gives off very little light. The stars seem frozen, like specks of ice, and any light they give is negligible. The grass is damp under Charles' bare feet, and the cold breeze on his naked body makes him shiver. He wraps his arms around himself in a futile attempt to keep warm.

The cardboard and tarp creaks as Erik gets up in turn, and cloth rustle when he draws his coat around his shoulders. His feet make little noise on the floor, inaudible under the screeches. It's impossible to tell which tent it's coming from, but it's nearby. It doesn't sound so loud now, while the sound easily fills their small tent, the fathomless sky swallows the screams.

_It didn__'__t before, not with so many voices screaming themselves raw. The noise was unbearable, and there was nothing to do but crawl into the rotting, stinking bunk, a tier down now, and try to sleep. It was impossible. The screams were too loud, and even pulling the foul blankets over their heads didn__'__t do anything. The feeling of helplessness was overwhelming, and Charles could feel Erik trembling next to him, the fear that they would be the next ones taken a crushing weight. Even if all had fallen silent in the next moment, he doubted they would be able to sleep anyway, with that fear hanging over them. He slid one arm around Erik__'__s chest, and felt his friend draw him closer, holding onto each other tightly in the darkness. The only security that felt real now._

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Erik slides an arm around Charles' bare shoulders and as his friend leans in against him, Erik pulls the warm fabric of his coat around them both and rubs his shoulders. It might be mid May, but the night is cold and the breeze sharp. Charles' hand finds his and squeezes. His fingers are like icicles, thin and brittle and freezing.

There are other voices now, and Erik thinks he can see people moving around a tent on the far right. Since the tents have been turned over to the camp survivors, they've been moved around. Charles and Erik haven't bothered, they've barely been well enough to move themselves, let alone a whole tent, and they don't care to be near anyone but each other. But in the last week or so the neat, straight lines of the army tents have crumpled and entangled into small groups and gatherings, mostly along religious or national lines. The screams, as far as Erik can see, are coming from a huddle of lopsided tents nearby.

_These people are the main reason Erik is considering asking Charles to move. The patients who live there are German, and despite that they are Jewish, Erik and Charles avoid them whenever they can. Just listening to their language is like nails on slate to their shattered nerves._

There are people outside the tents, Erik can see them moving. None of them have lights, the hospital is short of candles- and almost everything else- with none to give to the patients. A blur of shadows moves away from the tents, heading towards the hospital, probably to get help.

Charles is shivering from the cold, and pulls away from Erik, heading back to bed. Erik follows, there's nothing to see, although there's far too much to hear.

_He should be more afraid, and if this had happened a few weeks ago, he would have been. In fact, he would probably even have joined the woman in screaming if his nightmares had been especially bad._

He can't remember what he was dreaming about before being so rudely awoken, he's still only half-awake and between that and the strange sense of security the hospital still casts over them, even now, fear doesn't really register after the first shock.

The bed creaks under Charles, and Erik pauses only to strip off his coat and toss it on top of their bedding before joining Charles under the covers. It's still warm, and if it wasn't for the racket outside, it would be pleasant. Arms wrap around his chest, and he leans down and smiles against Charles' bald head. His arms reach over to hold Charles in return, his bony body is wonderfully warm and Erik rests his head against his friend's chest, still smiling. A renewed scream erases that smile. God, won't they be able to _get_ any sleep tonight?

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Erik pulls away with a sigh, and pulls the pillow over his head, clamping one arm over it to keep it crushed to his head. Charles can't help but chuckle, running one hand gently down Erik's arm.

_Erik __is__ looking better, his limbs no longer seem so distorted and flesh is starting to fill in the sharp contours of his body. It__'__s strange to feel flesh where there had previously been little more than bones, but Charles is certainly not complaining._

He can feel the tendons in Erik's arms standing out as he keeps a hold on the pillow. He traces them out, and feels Erik relax a little, although a new howl makes him tense again. Charles feels a flash of irritation, where are the nurses?

Erik has a different view on things. "Why can't they shut her up!" He snarls.

Charles shrugs, it's maddening, but what can they do? "What do you want them to do?" He asks.

Erik snorts, "Put a pillow over he face, that usually works." With that, he rolls over, and jams the pillow back over his head.

Charles sighs.

_He used to be shocked at how callous Erik could be towards their fellow ex-inmates, until he realized that his friend__'__s angry words were little more than that- angry words. For all his snarling, he was certainly not about to smother the woman, no matter how much noise she was making._

All the same, by the time the hospital staff made their way to the tents, lighting their way with lamps, Charles is just about to consider doing it himself. The woman is well on her way to screaming herself hoarse, the dry cries reminding him of the squealing of rusty hinges, and he breaths a short sigh of relief when the lights outside dim- the staff are inside the tent with the screaming woman. Hopefully they would quiet her and he and Erik could finally get some sleep.

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Erik knew now he'd been naïve to believe that the hospital staff could shut the woman up. The wails had gone on for what seemed like hours, occasionally broken by loud words from the nurse and orderlies sent to calm the woman down, and shouts to be quiet from the unfortunates who, like them, had to listen. By the time the nurse had realized there was nothing they could do for the woman here and ordered her taken up to the hospital by car it was almost morning.

The fact that it had turned out to be the very girl who had been sent out of the hospital last week makes it especially galling. He hopes the hospital staff didn't get any sleep either.

Charles had fallen asleep almost immediately afterwards, but Erik couldn't. Despite his exhaustion he was wide awake, and by the time the sun had risen, he had given up any hope of getting back to sleep.

_He__'__d always had problems sleeping, it was never bad enough to see a doctor for- unlike an insomniac in his old village who claimed she hadn__'__t slept for ten years- but it was always difficult for him to get to sleep, and if he was woken up during the night, that made it even harder._

Charles had had no such trouble, and Erik had left him to sleep with more than a little envy. It's too early for food yet, but the water has been heated for washing, and he may as well get there first.

_For all the hospital staff__'__s best efforts to keep the water clean; by the time half the tent__'__s inhabitants have taken their share, what__'__s left is distinctly murky from the buckets they dip into it. Because of this, there__'__s always a scramble to be first in the line._

At this time, there's almost no-one there, even fewer than usual. Probably they're all catching up on their sleep after last night. Erik is third in line, and the water he receives is clear as a mountain stream, and so hot that it raises steam even in the warm morning. Holding it by the handle, the only part not too hot to hold, he starts back towards the tent.

_He__'__s getting stronger, they both are. To begin with they couldn__'__t carry the pail back without having to put it down several times, even while working together. Now, Erik, knows he can manage with only one rest; at least he could if Charles had been there to share the load._

The pail is fuller than usual, or Erik is weaker from lack of sleep, but it keeps pulling him off balance. The sheer exhaustion blinds him to the rut in the path before it's almost too late; a rut probably left by the jeep sent to carry the girl to the hospital.

His foot slips, the worn sole of his boot finding no purchase on the crumbling dirt, and Erik stumbles forward, losing his balance. He tries to keep himself from falling forwards, clutching the pail against his chest in a probably futile attempt to keep it from spilling. Landing on his knees would hurt, but if he loses the pail, he doesn't know if he has the strength to go back and do this all over again. The metal is sharp through his thin shirt, the edge biting in painfully as he strains to keep his grip on it.

_The hard, jagged edge of a spade._

And suddenly, suddenly, something _catches_ and the pail stops abruptly in mid air, as though held firmly in place by something invisible. It doesn't even move when Erik collapses on top of it, the metal rim knocking the wind out of him. Stars explode in front of his eyes and all his breath is exhaled in a rush, rolling off the bucket and landing heavily on his side, gasping for air.

And perhaps he's not as secure in this place as he thinks, when the first thing he thinks of is the crushing blows of the Kapo's clubs- _the first blow catching you in the stomach, making you double over, giving the man choice as to where to strike next-_ and the next thing he expects is a bullet from an SS gun.

Erik draws in a second, ragged breath, and wishes, as he always does when the memories claw their way into his mind, that Charles were here. A third breath, and he rolls over onto his back, looking up.

It takes Erik a few moments to realize what he is looking at, and a few more to realize it isn't normal for objects to hover patiently in mid air. When he sits up, still gulping in air in an effort to stop his head from spinning, it seems to make perfect sense that the metal should react that way, by the same integral sense by which he knows that objects fall when you drop them. Despite the fact that this is precisely what the pail isn't doing.

Erik stares at the pail. His mind warring against his eyes, one certain that this was perfectly normal, the other insisting otherwise. He takes a deep breath, his ribs complaining loudly, not taking his eyes off the bucket. It doesn't move. It's about a foot off the ground, and Erik feels an absurd flash of anger at it for hovering there so smugly while he's lying in the dirt.

As though in answer to his annoyance, the pail drops, gravity reasserting itself with a jolt.

For a moment, he doesn't move, staring at the bucket. It's on the ground now, but how could it have fallen so perfectly? And surely it should have spilt on hitting the ground? The ground is rough and rocky, the pail should have tipped over. Instead, it is balanced neatly on the rut, and Erik can feel how steady it is, held in place by something other than gravity.

Erik feels his breathing quicken.

_The bullets twisting away from him. Three bullets that would have killed him, shot at point blank range, not only missing but __curving__away__ from him as though unable to come near. Knowing, even as he was pulled into the pit, that what had happened was impossible._

_Charles__'__ voice quavering, unable to believe what he was saying, telling him how the SS had sent dogs at him and his family, how they had died, but he had survived, the dogs refusing to come near him despite the snarls and curses from the Germans._

_Charles__'__ screams in Auschwitz, as people died in the gas chambers and smoke rode the air above the crematorium chimneys._

Erik gets to his feet, his legs are shaking and it feels as though he's run a mile, as though what had just happened had been drawn from his own body. His head spins, and Erik suspects it's not entirely due to the pain in his ribs. He stretches upright for a moment, working out the pains that seem to set in the moment he gives them an excuse to.

The wooden handle feels perfectly normal in his hands as he braces his feet under him and levers the bucket off the ground. For a moment he feels something catch- a faint tether as frail as spiderweb- then give, and the weight almost pulls him over again.

Erik rests the pail on the ground- smooth ground- and takes the chance to look around. The thought that someone might have seen this frightens him as much as it ever scared him in Auschwitz.

_Charles had once asked, in a voice that made it clear he was talking more to himself, if he should tell the hospital staff about his dreams. This had been before the Dachau survivors had come, when Charles had been determined to prove that things were different here._

_Erik suspects his expression had said more than he weak grasp of English ever could. Charles had smiled miserably and shaken his head. No. Obviously even his trust didn__'__t extend __that__ far._

The dirt track that serves as a road is empty, and the tents around are silent. He's out of sight from those dealing out the water, and everyone else seems to be asleep. There is no-one to see, and even if there was, after last night the hospital staff are not likely to listen to impossible stories.

Erik hauls the pail back up, and hurries off as quickly as he can. The weight drags heavily on his aching shoulder blades, and the uneven ground constantly threatens to trip him. Erik pays it no attention, focusing only on getting back to the tent, and the only security he knows.

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Charles feels rather proud of himself that he didn't panic when he woke up and found himself alone in the tent. He'd lain back down and forced himself to breathe evenly, trying to stop his heart from racing quite that madly, telling himself that Erik had only gone to fetch the water, he had not been taken by anyone or anything, he was not going to be hurt, he was not going to be beaten, he was not going to be shot. He was fine.

But when Erik shoves his way into the tent, practically throws down the pail and fastens the tent flaps at top speed, Charles knows he'd been too optimistic.

Erik collapses on the bed, the springs screaming, and drops his head in his hands. He's breathing far too fast and- to Charles' shock- he's trembling.

"Erik?" Charles can't quite keep the quaver of fear out of his voice. Oh God, have they found out about them? Did the gypsy woman talk and are they going to be taken away too?

_The threat of prison would have seemed laughable a few months ago, and it still did, but for one thing; that he would be alone. The thought of facing life without Erik is more terrifying than he could ever have imagined._

Erik takes a deep breath, and lifts his head. His lips move silently, shaping words that he discards in the same heartbeat. He swallows; "It happened again." He says finally.

Charles feels his stomach drop sickeningly, _God, not that, please,_ and rests a hand on Erik's shoulder. Erik reaches up and clutches at it with impossible strength. Whatever happened, it's shaken his friend to the core, but since Erik isn't panicking or dragging Charles out of the tent, he hopes it means they're not the intended targets.

"Did they take someone else?" Charles whispered, somehow it seems right to whisper.

Erik turns to look at him, "What?"

Charles slid his legs over the side of the bed, he's naked, but the tent is warm and they've never bothered with modesty.

"The police, did they take someone else? Someone…" He doesn't dare say the word. "Someone… like us." He finishes in an even lower voice.

Erik's lips draw back in a smile that looks more like a snarl. "There are none like us."

Charles stares, "Erik-"

"I dropped it." Erik waves a hand towards the pail. "I tripped and I dropped it." He takes a deep breath; Charles doesn't blink, waiting for Erik to go on. The pail is full to overflowing. Erik closes his eyes. "I dropped it and it didn't hit the ground."

Whatever Charles is expecting, and he'd thought he had considered just about every option up to and including their own execution, this isn't one of them. It feels as though he's just grabbed hold of an electric fence, and for once, fear isn't the only emotion. "Did anyone see you?" He wonders if Erik even hears him, his mouth's gone so dry he can barely make a sound.

Erik's lips twitch into a far more honest smile, though still bitter. "No." He looks as though he'd like to add more, but just swallows and shakes his head. "No." He says again.

Charles allows himself to relax a little, but the fear is still there, deeper. _What if it happened to him again?_

This isn't Auschwitz, however people might behave, and even if he had another dream, surely the worst he could see-

The worst he could see would be what drove the girl mad last night, and that would be every bit as bad as what he had felt before.

_He thought __**he**__**'**__**d**__ gone mad, after feeling those people burnt to death. If they had stayed in the camp much longer, Charles suspected he would have. There was another transport to be rid of, and if it happened again, he knew he__'__d not survive it, even if by some miracle he retained his sanity. He would have ended up screaming, and for that he would have been shot. Even as it was he__'__d bitten Erik__'__s hand almost to the bone._

_He can't remember how he'd been able to make it to the empty field the SS had led them to, but it had been far enough from the main camp that by the time they arrived there, only echoes rang in Charles mind, and the pain was slowly fading from his limbs. His mouth was full of Erik__'__s blood, and when he looked back, the last shreds of ash were blowing away. He thought he was going to be sick. He couldn__'__t stop shaking. Charles pressing as close to Erik as he could, huddling as far from the kapo as the overgrown field allowed. The man ignored them and ordered them to clear it, it was overrun with brambles. Even from where they were, they could see the thorny tangles like green barbed wire, blackberries hanging in heavy clusters. Anyone caught eating them would be shot, the kapo nodded._

_The moment the work started, Erik dragged Charles to a particularly overgrown corner of the field, which the other prisoners avoided. He crouched down beside the thick wall of thorns, and told Charles to go in as far as he could and calm down._

_The thorns had torn his already tattered clothes and drawn blood, and when he stopped he was breathing so fast he couldn__'__t even cry, and shaking so hard his teeth were chattering._

"_What happened?__"__ Erik whispered from outside, __"__Did it happen again?__"_

_Charles didn__'__t know what to say. He didn__'__t know where to start, even if his voice could work, which was doubtful. He nodded frantically, although he didn__'__t know if Erik saw it._

"_What happened?__"__ Erik insisted, then swore in Polish as a thorn gashed his hand._

"_God…__"__ Charles__'__ voice cracked, and tears stung his eyes, __"__They were burning… they were burning people in there. They were burning them __**alive**__"__ His voice failed and tears ran down his face. __"__I could feel it…__"__ He could still feel it. __"__They couldn__'__t wait until they were dead. They burnt them alive. Oh God.__"_

"_You felt it?__"_

"_They burnt them. I could feel it. Oh God, am I going mad?__"_

"_In __this__ place?__"__ The black humour was oddly soothing, and Charles drew in a deep, ragged breath. __"__You know what has happened to me- Shh!__"__ The sharp, measured tread of an SS strode past his hiding place. Erik said nothing, but worked harder, and from where he was Charles could see his hands bleeding, both from the thorns and Charles__'__ teeth. Then, once the danger was past- __"__I don__'__t understand what__'__s happening to you, but you__'__re not mad.__"_

_It was strange, but even then, a bare few months since they__'__d first met, there was a note of deep concern in Erik voice. So alien, in this place, and even more so considering that Erik would have to do Charles__'__ share of work as well as his own, since he was in no state to do anything._

_It was several hours before Charles calmed down enough to crawl out of the bush and help Erik, and by that time his friend was exhausted. Even from so far away, Charles could see the smoke as the second transport was murdered. He thought he could hear the screams, but they were faint and distant, and Charles hoped it was just his imagination._

_They__'__d stripped brambles of their leaves and eaten the blackberries until they felt sick, and afterwards had rubbed their bloody hands over their clothes and chewed bramble stems to draw blood and hide the stains. _

Erik has pulled his necklace free from his shirt and is holding the shards of metal, staring at them as though he has never seen them before. They tremble in the still air, as though terrified of Erik's presence.

He jumps when Charles touches his shoulder, so absorbed in the metal that he's forgotten he's not alone. "Can you-" Charles starts, and doesn't know how to finish the sentence.

Erik understands anyway, and shrugs. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do." At least, that's what Charles thinks he's saying, he's slipped back into Polish again. He stares helplessly at the broken pendant.

"What did it feel like?" Charles can't help but ask. Three years on, and scientific curiosity still hasn't left him completely.

_Erik had asked him that once, the night after his first dream. He hadn't been able to sleep, and had huddled against his friend, terrified that it was going to happen again._

_-"What did it feel like?"- Erik had asked in stilted, halting English, and Charles had felt like being sick. It had been like waking into an even worse nightmare. It had been like gaining new senses to perceive the hell they were in even more intensely. It had been like going mad. It had been like going sane. It was the most horrible thing Charles had ever touched and if he'd had the water he'd have washed himself until he bled to try and get the feeling of it out of his skin._

_-"Like dying."- He'd answered. Like dying a thousand times at the same time, because that was what it was._

But it had not been like that for Erik, and despite the fear on his friend's face, the bewilderment at just what the _hell_ was happening to them, he can see the curiosity dawning in Erik's eyes. His hands clench on the necklace, he wants it to happen again. He wants to do it again. "Like…" Erik trails off and shakes his head.

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It's like explaining sight to a blind man, sound to a deaf man. For a moment it felt like he was perceiving the world through completely new senses, something that wasn't sight or touch but something like both, and everything, especially metals, had been edged in a corona of light.

He wants to do it again. They need every tool they can get here, and if he could… Erik can't even describe what it was in his own mind, but if he could do it again, it could help them. Just how, Erik hasn't a clue, but they need all the help they can get.

"It was like I caught the pail," He attempts again. "But not with my hands." It hadn't felt like that, though it's the best approximation he an come up with. "It was like there was a…" He doesn't know the English word- "a _płetwa_-"

"A spider web," Charles supplies.

"Yes, a web, around me." He spreads his fingers, trying to explain what it had felt like, to have been able to feel things around him, for just that split second. It had been the easiest thing in the world to stop the pail, as though all he'd needed to do was reach out and stop it. He could probably have stopped himself from falling too, if he'd known how. "I could feel things I couldn't touch." Erik knows it's a ridiculously poor explanation, but there are no words. No words can exist to explain this.

"Did it hurt?"

Erik gives Charles a sharp look. His had hurt, whatever it was they had, although whether the pain had come from the action or what he'd seen was a mystery Charles is certainly in no hurry to clarify.

"No," He said slow. "But it was tiring." And more so now, now the adrenaline's worn off and he's finally no longer shaking. He is far more tired than he should be, even after a sleepless night.

He holds his hands up, wondering if he could be able to…

It's like flicking a switch, like a part of his brain_ twists_ and there's a crash as the pail just tips over, as though someone had just kicked it. Charles only just manages to catch it before all the water spills.

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The metal is warm, although whether that's from the water or from… whatever just happened, Erik doesn't know. The ground under his knees is also warm, and damp, the wet earth squeezing through the gaps in the tarp. Erik stares at the pail in shock, as though frozen in place. Whatever he was expecting, in wasn't this. His lips move soundlessly; _'jakze…' -how…-_

Then the shock shatters and he doubles over, clutching at his temples. Charles gets up so quickly he almost upsets the pail, and sits beside Erik. He's afraid to touch him, "Are you…" He risks a brush on Erik's shoulder.

There's a faint twinge of pain and Charles glances at his hand in surprise, static electricity. He doesn't remove his hand though, and after a few moments Erik's comes up to cover it.

"I'm alright." He murmurs. "Just tired."

"Do you want to sleep?"

Erik nods, and Charles shifts to allow him to lie down. He doesn't close his eyes though, watching Charles through his lashes. The sight sends a jolt through Charles' stomach, quite a bit like a static charge, and his hands reach almost of their own accord to stroke Erik's hair. The lashes flutter, and his friend's mouth pulls into a smile. The tension's in his groin now, and Charles feels his cheeks burn when he realises he's getting aroused. He lies down quickly, burying his traitorous face and treacherous body under the blankets before Erik notices. It's strange, he loves Erik, loves him far, far more than he's ever loved anyone, but this is the first time his body is really taking an interest.

_The last time he felt sexual attraction towards anyone was in England. They'd stayed there for several months, while Kurt Marko sorted out the next stage of their journey- over the channel and into France. Charles had transferred to Oxford at the time, and while there had met a young woman, a Scottish girl by the name of Moria._

_He still looks back on their time together fondly, despite what happened afterwards, or perhaps because of it. But it seems as though he's remembering someone else's life. He can't remember what it felt like to kiss her, can't recall what it felt like to hold her. But he can't imagine that it had felt any better than kissing Erik did._

He remembers one night when he and Moria had a bit too much wine, and had indulged in a bit of drunken groping. He can't remember much about it now, only that her mouth had tasted of Guinness and his fingers had been sticky afterwards. Anything else, the excitement and the arousal, was long forgotten, but Charles gets a strange feeling in him stomach at the thought of what it would be like to do that with Erik.

_Their relationship hadn't progressed any further than that. In fact, it had been mostly to impress Moria that Charles had agreed to follow Marko all the way to France. It had been stupid, and if Charles had had a chunk of bread for every time he'd cursed himself for it, neither he nor Erik would have starved these past three years._

And that particular memory is enough to kill any desire Charles might feel, and he feels no shame in rolling closer to Erik, more comfort rather than pleasure. Erik's half asleep already and just grumbles softly before wrapping an arm around his waist and burying his face into Charles' neck.

And _that_ feels better that anything else, in a way that has nothing to do with sex or comfort.

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When Erik wakes up, the sun is high enough to beat directly on the roof of their tent, and the air is hot and stifling. He uncurls from around Charles and rolls over on his back. The pail is where they left it, and if it wasn't for the lower level of the water inside it, Erik could imagine it had all been a dream. He removes his arm from Charles' waist, and holds his hand to the green sunlight. The shadows play over the thin fingers, and Erik flexes them, trying to recall that _feeling_, as though a switch had been flicked and everything seemed somehow to make more sense. It doesn't come.

"Are you trying again?" Charles' voice makes him jump. Doing this is making even more jumpy than usual, and Charles notices because the next thing he feels is his friend's warm hand stoking over his shoulder. He turns to look at him, Charles' eyes are half-closed, blue peering between black bars, and a sleepy smile on his lips. A tongue comes out to lick over those lips, and Erik completely forgets what he's trying to do. He can't help himself, closing the last few inches between them and covering Charles' mouth with his. His friend's lips are warm and slippery against his, and his hand comes up to cup the back of Erik's head. The warm burn that always ignites in Erik's stomach when they kiss intensifies, and when Charles' lips part and his tongue brushes over Erik's, it's an almost electric blast that sets all his nerves tingling. His tongue feels rough, like a cat's, a strange contrast with the smooth surface of his teeth.

Erik wishes he could know what he was doing. He wishes he has some kind of experience in doing this. He's afraid of doing anything that could make this any more awkward than this already is, and the only relief is that Charles is equally clueless and wouldn't know if he were doing anything wrong either. Not that he is, his hands is tracing patterns over the back of his neck and his mouth is incredibly warm. Again, another warm burst of electricity- not so unlike the strange seeing-touch of this morning- and his wraps his arm around Charles' neck, pulling him closer. He's still dressed, while Charles is naked. He doesn't know where he should put his hands, worries that he might touch… something… he shouldn't. But Charles' mouth is so warm, and the heat of his thin body almost burns Erik's fingertips, one arm is wrapped around Charles' back, the other is tucked in front of him, and he can't resist the urge to run his hand down his chest. The skin is heated, and Erik barely notices the prominent ribs his nails skate over.

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"Erik!" Charles' voice is more a yelp than anything else, one muffled by Erik's lips. He pulls back, confusion flickering for a moment and Charles' treacherous mind can't think beyond how he looks, eyes bright and half-lidded, lips swollen from kisses. Then, if anything the view gets even better when Erik flushes, and despite the incredibly awkward circumstances, Charles grins. Erik is normally so pale his skin's almost colourless, and seeing him blush is… well, it's beautiful.

Erik looks away, looking as though he'd like to say something but unable to find the words. At least he's stopped pressing himself against him, which is a relief since obviously Charles isn't the only one to be effected by the other's presence. A relief, but it was flattering, even if Erik is now so mortified he can't even look at him.

Erik's cheek is as warm as it looks when he kisses him, a wordless _it's okay_. His eyes flick towards him, then his face turns and they kiss again.

Charles wonders what it would have been like had he let Erik continue. It would have been even worse afterwards, but… it would have felt nice, and surely, after everything they've suffered they should be allowed some pleasure? The feeling of his friend's erection pressed against his hip, hot breaths filling his mouth. He could have let him continue, could have enjoyed it too, the thick fabric of Erik's coat maddening against his skin. He should have…

But he couldn't because it was too dangerous. It was the middle of the day and if they made any noise, if someone came in… he couldn't forget about it, and couldn't seem to unhook his mind as Erik did and pay no attention to anything but this.

And perhaps, because it felt too strange, even after all this time.

_It had felt too strange to begin with, back when all they could do was kiss. If he was tired or worn out or sick he generally couldn't bring himself to care, but other times… he couldn't forget. Unlike Erik, he had seen other homosexuals, and it was bizarre to consider himself one of them. Also unlike Erik, he had grown up hearing nothing but scorn where they were concerned, and he can't just forget that._

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Erik stares up at the canvas, and tries to will the blood away from his face. He's no longer so aroused, but the ache's still there, and he wishes Charles could at least move away, because he can still feel him there in a way that has nothing to do with webs. But at the same time… if Charles really was disgusted by what he'd done- _stupid stupid stupid didn't think didn't consider stupid idiot-_ why isn't he moving away?

Then Charles' lips touch his cheek, a wordless brush of forgiveness. Erik turns his head a little, and their eyes meet, then a little more and their lips touch again, and the hard knot of tension in Erik's stomach relaxes because it's okay. Because it seems they think the same way in this as well, and if this is strange, then so everything else. Erik sighs, and moves a little closer, resting his head on Charles' shoulder. This time, Charles doesn't pull away.


	14. Part Four, Chapter three

Part Four, chapter three

It was early when they sleep, after the disturbance the previous night they were both still tired, and when they wake up it was barely light. It's almost mechanical, like clockwork. Eyes close, they sleep, eyes open. Like a switch. It used to be they'd be wide awake when they woke up, but that's faded.

_Again, the security has changed them. Even in the hospital, surrounded, Erik had been able to doze, although how much of that was fever and how much was assurance he didn__'__t know._

He is acutely aware of Charles lying next to him. Although he's technically lying on a separate bed, Erik knows he's there, a warm presence he can almost feel. It's strange, but so familiar it no longer registers.

"Erik?" Charles voice is soft, but starts Erik out of the half-doze he'd sunk into. "Are you awake?"

"Hmm." He grunts assent, and rolls over on his back.

Charles' hand touches his arm. Apparently that assurance was all he needs, because he doesn't speak again, gently rubbing circles on the skin with his thumb. He squeezes gently, his fingers almost surrounding Erik's arm.

_They had, before. When they had first left the hospital, and before when Charles had half-dragged, half-carried him out of the rotten Belsen barracks. He didn__'__t remember much of that, but he did remember slipping and almost falling, held up only by Charles__'__ grip on his forearm. He didn__'__t know how his friend had kept his grip on his arm, or how he__'__d gotten him upright and on the train, because at that moment the pain shot through his shoulders, the fever gripped his mind and he was in the station once again room, hung from the ceiling and feeling his arms slowly dislocate._

Erik blinks away the fever memories and stares up at the ceiling. The blankets are thick, but the air on his face is damp and chill.

_The cold, the utter, bone-crushing cold of the Auschwitz winter, their thin clothes wet through from the snow._

The tent above their heads hangs heavily, and Erik can just about make out the light pattering of rain on canvas. He represses a sigh. One thing they haven't been able to find in the boxes were wet weather clothing, and after Charles had first fallen ill out here he isn't about to head outside for any length of time.

Which means they are stuck in here all day, or until the rain decided to stop.

Ah well, they can always talk. "I would never think," He attempts, "That I would hate doing nothing so much."

"Never have thought." Charles corrects and smiles. "I know what you mean."

He doesn't speak again, and Erik hopes he's not keeping quiet after what happened yesterday. Luckily not. "What _would_ you like right now?" Charles asks eventually.

My parents. My family. To wake up and find this was all a dream. To be able to walk for any length of time without getting exhausted. To be able to kiss you in public without being taken away. The list goes on forever but it's not what Charles means. Erik turns his mind to the little things. "Some chocolate." The memories of the thick slabs carried into the hospital are still fresh and it's been years since they've had chocolate.

_The last time had been in the train, after Charles had set his shoulders. He didn__'__t know how long had passed between that and when the pain had begun to ebb, only that Charles had been there, an odd prelude to what was to come. He__'__d been suspicious, angry and in pain and it was probably fortunate Charles couldn__'__t understand Polish when he recalled what he__'__d said to his future friend in that time. He__'__d probably realized it wasn__'__t friendly._

_Charles had somehow been able to keep his bag with him, and even after the long journey from France to Poland, there__'__d still been food inside it. Probably he hadn__'__t even realized he was hungry. Erik hadn__'__t been when Charles had first offered him part of a sandwich. He__'__d eaten it anyway, the ghetto had already taught him that lesson, and had stopped snarling at him._

_Between them they__'__d emptied the bag down to an old half-melted bar of Cadbury__'__s stuck to the bottom of the sack. He__'__d hadn__'__t had chocolate for two years; he wouldn__'__t have it again for another three._

Charles squeezes his arm again. "Chocolate would be nice."

Erik knows what Charles wants him to say, he smiles. "What about you?"

"I'd like a book."

Erik blinks, then smiles. Yes, Charles would ask for a book. He was good at thinking up things like that. The little things.

_Like asking the nurses in the hospital for medicine, something which Erik wouldn__'__t even have considered. He__'__d remembered the camp, and the ghetto before that, and how asking there would have been useless, even lethal. Charles had remembered that, and before, when you could go to hospitals to get medicine, even though he described it as remembering a former life. He__'__d envied Charles for that._

"A book would be good." Erik agrees. Then, because they have nothing else to do and breakfast won't be served for several hours, "What kind of book?"

"I don't mind." Charles rolls over onto his stomach and stretches. "An English book, because then I could teach you to read it."

Erik is slightly insulted, although it's undeniable. "I do know how to read some English." Although after all this time, he can't be sure if he can even read Polish any more.

_His father had taught English in the ghetto, although schools had been banned. He had learnt it from __his__ father, and Erik kept thinking how much better it would have been to have had him as a teacher. He__'__d taught Erik English and German, and his father was nowhere near as good. He tried not to think about him if possible, or any of his other relatives who had stayed to defend their farm from the Polish police._

"It's easy." Charles agrees.

"What would you like to read?" Erik insists, it's easier than Charles asking him what kind of chocolate he'd like. Besides, this is a very pleasant conversation, and much better than the awkward one he'd been anticipating.

"War of the Worlds." Charles is smiling faintly, staring up at the ceiling, a million miles away. "It's what I was reading while we were in France, I never finished it."

"What was it about?" He'd been rereading an old book about the Great War before they'd been deported. It had been a present from that same grandfather and he wondered what had happened to it.

"Martians invading the world."

Erik smiles too. "I could manage that." Martians didn't exist, which was more than you could say for Nazis.

"I think you could. I could just imagine you attacking them with a crowbar." He looks at Erik, Erik smiles again, weakly. He knows what Charles means; he wouldn't necessarily have to be holding the crowbar.

"Or make a bucket of water fall on them." He agrees.

"That might work."

"So, how did they lose?"

"I don't know, I never finished the book."

"Oh."

"What would you like to read?"

"I don't know." Even his grandfather's book was notable only because it was his grandfather's. The writing itself was rather dull. "Your book sounds good." He smiles, "A cookbook." Although that might be as much torture as pleasure.

Charles' smile fades. "You know…" He hesitates. "They should still have chocolate in the kitchens, and I think we could find a cookbook…" He hesitates again, trailing off.

Erik looks at him. For Charles to suggest this, no matter how indirectly… well, Erik's not too sure what to think about that. Pride maybe, pride should be there, so why does he feel so disappointed?

Giving himself a mental shake, Erik nods. Yes, some chocolate would definitely be nice, although the cookbook might not be such a good idea.

If they are going to do this, they had better start soon. It must be about five in the morning, and the staff starts making breakfast at six, at least, that was when the smell of cooking pervaded the hospital.

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It seems more like a game than anything else, and Charles would rather keep it that way. It is fun when they start, dressing in their darkest clothes, Charles pulling his hood over his head, Erik turning up the collar on his coat. It is like getting dressed up, children playing cops and robbers only this time it's just robbers. Erik actually smiles when Charles turns up his collar- he himself has a hood, but Erik doesn't and it might be best to hide his face, a wonderful expression that kills any desire to change his mind. He looks so sweet, almost playful. Charles can't help himself and goes up and hugs Erik tightly. Rather than pulling away with a blush, as Charles had feared he would after last night, Erik leans in and actually laughs a little. He's warm and the coat is the same one as yesterday. The army coat. Charles is the one who blushes, when Erik kisses him, and quickly turns away to leave the tent.

_He__'__d been dreading Erik__'__s reaction to last night. Mostly because in hindsight, he simply can__'__t bring himself to regret it. If Erik had, it would have made things unbearable. He__'__d been very glad to be wrong._

He wonders why he isn't feeling more enthusiastic. He'd never liked stealing even in the camps, but after seeing the food that had been brought in he's more than willing to hang morals and break in. Erik of course has no objections.

It disappoints Charles, oddly enough. It's ridiculous and hypocritical since it was his idea to begin with, but somehow he expects Erik to be better than this, even if he isn't.

_And that__'__s even more ridiculous to expect from Erik, who went through far more than he had. How much worse to lose your family when they are people you actually love. To suffer for six years rather than three. Stealing had been the only way for him to survive, and even here it was the best way of getting anything._

But now, as they get ready to leave, it's suddenly a great deal less fun. The small fragment of childhood evaporates and they are left shivering in unwelcome reality. The rain is still coming down, and Charles is having second thoughts. "This isn't a good idea." His whispered to Erik, "They already want to send us away; we shouldn't give them an excuse."

Erik shrugs, "They'll not know. And even if they do, some missing chocolate will not make a different. If they want to send us away, they will." He bites his lips, then shrugs, as though dismissing whatever he was thinking.

Charles sighs and nods, unable to keep a smile for making a stealthy appearance. Chocolate.

_He remembers the bar he had smuggled to France. He hadn__'__t thought much of it when he bought it, just something to take for the journey over from England. In the end he__'__d been so seasick that the bar had ended up lost and forgotten at the bottom of his bag. He hadn__'__t found it again until a week later, in the train when he and Erik had been scavenging anything edible from the bag._

Erik smiles back, his mind obviously dwelling on the same thoughts. Charles wonders how often Erik has had chocolate. Probably not much, although Poland is close to Germany, and Germany makes good chocolate _if nothing else_. Certainly not since he was sent to the ghetto.

Seeing his friend smile, Charles wonders how much he'd smile after some chocolate, and decided that it's worth the risk.

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The hospital is dark and quiet, and although the lights are off Erik is reminded of the night they arrived here, although that memory already seems long ago, for all that it's only been two months.

_He couldn__'__t remember much of it; the memories are blurred from time and the burning edge of fever. He remembers lying in a corridor with Charles, and watching the stones sway and edge away from his vision as the typhus tightened its grip on him again. He remembers being carried by the American nurse, trying to fight because he couldn__'__t touch Charles but his limbs refusing to obey him. He vaguely remembers the doctor, but his face keeps sliding into Mengele__'__s and is fuzzy around the edges with dizziness and nausea._

Remembering this is surprisingly reassuring. He has been ill, so ill that it's almost impossible to believe he's here now, standing on his own legs, dressed in his own clothes, with no one but Charles with him or knowing where he is.

Charles is smiling nervously, but Erik knows his mind is running the same mantra of _its okay, it__'__s safe, they won__'__t hurt us, this isn__'__t the camp, they can__'__t hurt us_ that is running through his own.

He's tried to reason the fear away, that this is certainly not the first time they've stolen something, but it doesn't work. This isn't the same as stealing from prisoners or the camp kitchen or even from a kapo. If this has any connection with their -not life- _existence_ in Auschwitz, it would be like stealing from the SS. And he had certainly never been desperate enough to attempt _that_.

Besides, it feels wrong, in a way that theft in Auschwitz never had. There, they were stealing to survive, without the extra food it provided them they would have died long ago. But they don't need to do that here. Here they aren't starving. Here, they aren't even hungry. Erik stops, this isn't fair. He doesn't want to do this. As unpleasant as the hospital staff might have been- Erik hasn't forgotten the threat of morphine, nor that of sending them away- they have been clothed, sheltered and fed, and stealing seems a poor recompensation.

Charles turns, "Erik?"

Erik sighs. This had been his friend's idea, and the memory of the luxury food is almost enough to get him moving again. He doesn't, and Charles walks back to stand beside him. Erik sighs again, and only looks up when Charles takes his hand. He's smiling, and Erik smiles back ruefully. The pride and love in Charles eyes doesn't quite make up for losing the chocolate he's so been hoping for, but Erik knows he'd hate himself if he went through with it.

_He__'__d never hated himself for stealing before, not even to begin with, in the ghetto. His family had been relying on the food he and his little brother could steal, and after witnessing how the people of Warsaw had treated them, he__'__d had no sympathy for them._

Charles' hand lifts and brushes his cheek, his smile is tender and Erik feels his disappointment fade a little more. He glances around but it's more instinctive than fearful. They know they're alone. This part of the hospital is almost silent and any footstep would echo enough for them to hear. It's still, and for a moment they just listen to each other breathe.

_Lying in the bunk in Auschwitz, listening, through the coughs and gasps of the other prisoners, for the sound of each other__'__s breathing. The knowledge that the other was still alive, that they weren__'__t alone._

The memory is so sharp it makes Erik start, so clear he might have been back there. He shudders, and Charles touches his shoulder gently. The tension dissipates almost immediately, like electricity drawn through a conductor. Erik wonders where the analogy came from.

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Charles rubs his shoulder, and smiles gently, "You know," He starts, "There _could_ be someone in the kitchens at this time."

Erik looks at him, frowning. They had acknowledged that possibility. The idea had been that the corridor would be dark enough for them to see if the lights in the kitchen were on.

Charles continues, "We could just go over there and ask." He shrugs again. "What can they do?" He's painfully aware he's trying to convince himself.

Erik's expression is almost comical; he blinks at him as though unable to comprehend what he's hearing. It was one possibility he clearly hasn't considered and Charles' smile broadens, glad he's finally won one over on his friend. Finally, Erik drops his head and laughs softly. Twice in one day, who needs chocolate?

"Do you want to try?"

Erik doesn't answer, but when Charles holds out his hand he takes it and follows.

_He could count on the fingers of one hand the times he__'__s managed to win an argument with Erik. At first, he lost because Erik knew what to do and how to behave to survive, for which he is always grateful. But it was because of that that Erik always won arguments afterwards, because he didn__'__t feel ready to challenge his friend. Now, he knows the rules of survival as well as Erik does- perhaps better- and he knows that he knows it, and the only reason Erik keeps winning their arguments is that he is even more stubborn than Charles is._

The lights are off when they approach the kitchen; they've planned well, but as they approach they hear footsteps coming behind them. Charles hopes it's not one of those who they had to deal with before.

It isn't, and Charles isn't sure if he should be glad or not because it's the nurse who hands out the water. He doesn't think Erik has said anything too unpleasant to her- certainly no more than anyone else, but she's German, and he really doesn't want to deal with that right now.

She blinks when she sees them, and Charles can see the emotions flash across her face; surprise, worry, a hint of fear, guilt and underlying everything, disgust. Because they are still filth to her, filth in ragged clothes and wrecked bodies and empty, haunted eyes. Never mind that it's because of her country that they're in this state.

Charles doesn't know how he knows this, only that he does and it's the truth, and it's because of this that he finds it so hard to force a smile. She forces one back. Erik doesn't bother.

"_Morgan." _She greets them. That one word sets Charles' teeth on edge.

"Good Morning." He knows speaking English is a risk, but he can't bear German.

Erik does speak at first, and when he does, Charles has to hide a wince at his heavy accent. Usually he barely notices it, but in contrast it's painfully apparent.

"Chocolate?" He points at the door to the kitchen.

The nurse blinks, "You want chocolate?" Her accent's even worse than Erik's.

They nod in unison, and the nurse pauses, obviously torn. She wants to send them away, she's probably not allowed to hand out chocolate to everyone, and in her opinion it's wasted on them. But the guilt is at the forefront in her eyes, and the wish to atone, if only in their eyes, for what her country has done.

As thought a piece of chocolate could ever right that. Charles doesn't speak though, and keeps his smile fixed, although it feels as though his lips might crack.

Finally, the nurse sighs and nods. "A _klein_ bit chocolate." She warns them, as thought they're children begging at a pantry.

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It's degrading, the way she looks at them. As though they're the ones who should be grateful to her. They haven't had chocolate for three years because of what her people have done, she should be grateful they're even asking her, rather than just taking it. Theft wouldn't have felt this unpleasant.

And they would have gotten larger portions. When the woman emerges, she's holding two bare fragments, hardly bigger than the last piece he'd eaten, with Charles in the train. She isn't smiling any more, and jerks her chin at them. _Clear off._

"One thing." Charles' voice surprises both of them.

The woman frowns as she turns, _"Ja?"_

"A book?"

Erik looks at him in surprise. Charles' face is fixed, determined, and Erik can see how hard it is to force him to stand his ground when every instinct is screaming at him to run.

"A book?" The woman is surprised. "What for?"

"To read." Erik can't help but smile.

"No. No books here." She shoos them. "Go, out."

Charles takes a step backwards, as though to leave, but Erik doesn't move, although every muscle in his body is screaming at him to run. Instinct, or something like it, built up through years of fear. When they tell you to go, go.

_If you don__'__t, you__'__ll be beaten, tortured, and shot._

Erik refuses to back down. No one has said they shouldn't be in the hospital. They are not forbidden to be here, they have as much right as she has. There are books here and if Charles wants a book, he's going to get one. "A book." He insists. It probably won't be War of the Worlds, but it's better than nothing.

"No books." She looks irritated now.

"Books on medicine." Charles was a medical student before, he might like that. Beside him, Charles nods.

"I'll bring it back." Charles assures her. "I'll look after it." He speaks English so easily, and Erik knows its only apathy that's stopped the staff from realizing they're not brothers.

The nurse gives a long-suffering sigh, "I will look." She holds up a finger, "Wait."

He only notices Charles' hand on his arm when his friend squeezes it, he is smiling. "Thank you."

Erik shrugs, "I did say I would like one," Is all he says.

Charles nods, "I'll teach you to read it."

"Thank you."

The woman returns, she'd holding a badly bound paperback which she holds out to Erik. Erik lets Charles take it, glancing over his friend's arm to see the cover; a book on anatomy. Charles is smiling, so Erik smiles too. On the cover is a drawing of the human hand, the skin removed to show the tendons and muscles.

"Thank you." Erik murmurs, and Charles nods in agreement.

They are about to leave when Charles stops. "How is the girl?"

The nurse stops. "What girl?"

"The girl you sent out. How is she?"

She shakes her head in disgust, but answers, as though deciding the sooner she gives them what they want, the sooner they'll leave. "Mad." Her lips purse. "She don't move, she don't speak. We've called for help."

Charles nods. Erik looks away, the sense of danger has returned but at least it looks as though they won't be sent away just yet. Not if this is the result. He wonders it that's why Charles asked. Probably his friend wanted to know for her sake.

He was starting to envy Charles' ability to think of these things. It's not as though he doesn't care. He does, it's just he doesn't think of things like that at once.

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Outside is colder, but the unprecedented success is oddly warming. The chocolate is heavy in his pocket, the book familiar under his arm.

_He__'__d always taken books with him before, books in his bag, books in his room, books tucked under his arm. It had taken him days to decide which books to take with him to England, and he occasionally wonders what has happened to them. Probably, the landlord had thrown them out or sold them after it had become clear they weren__'__t coming back._

It's a thick book, though of poor quality. It feels as though several pages have already come loose from the poor binding and the corners are crumpled and dusty. Charles runs his fingers over the binding, feeling where the thread has frayed. A book. They own so little, but now they own a book, even if it is just borrowed. It feels strange, it feels good. He smiles at Erik, who smiles back, and risks taking his hand. Erik's fingers are warm and curl against his palm. Charles shivers. Erik's fingers flex, scratching his palm lightly. Charles' brush over his knuckles, dry skin rubbing against skin. Erik's lips thin, he's chewing on the lower one and his fingers twitch again.

Luckily Erik doesn't press more intimacy, and when Charles closes the tent flaps behind them, he seems satisfied to sit on the bed. Charles joins him, and gives him a rueful smile before pulling out the chocolate, Erik nods and does the same. It's not very much chocolate, and far less than they'd have got had they just taken it, but it tastes wonderful, far better than it would stolen. Erik finishes his off first, and licks his fingers. Charles ducks his head down over his chocolate, trying to hide his blush. Erik runs his hand over his head and neck, his fingers are damp, and Charles has to fight the instinct to pull away.

Erik doesn't remove his hand, and Charles forces himself to let him continue. It doesn't feel bad, it feels _good_ and why should he deny himself that? Instead he returns the favour, running his hand over Erik's thigh; the hand on his neck kneads the skin lightly, before slipping around his shoulders and pulling him in for Erik to press a kiss on his cheek.

Charles pulls his hand from his thigh and wraps it around Erik's waist, dropping back across the bed and pulling him with him. Erik is smiling at the ceiling, one hand still caught between Charles' head and the thin mattress. Right now, Charles is just happy to watch him.

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"Charles." Erik has no idea how to broach this, so just saying it seems the simplest. This is Charles, and he doesn't think the worse possibility is likely. "Yesterday…"

Charles' smile fades; Erik hopes this isn't going to be too hard. The memory is embarrassing, but it's the sort of embarrassment Erik thinks he can live with. He takes a deep breath, "I wouldn't have minded." Far from it, he'd have enjoyed it.

"I wouldn't either." Charles looks away, focusing on the ceiling, Erik does the same. "But if someone had seen us."

It's hard to live in constant fear, eventually you stop caring. "Charles." He takes his hand in his. It's warm and the touch is always comforting. Remembering yesterday, with Charles whole body against him, naked and… enjoying himself. Charles' right, it is a risk, but wouldn't it be worth it?

"It's not worth being caught for." Charles might have read his mind, but he's still missed the point.

"It's worth anything."

To his credit, Charles doesn't try and deny it. "We can wait."

Erik snorts, sounding loud in the close tent; they've been speaking in whispers. "We can wait forever, it will not be safe. Where can we go?"

Charles shrugs helplessly. "I don't know."

It's ridiculous, how _can_ he know? And how can Erik be surprised after what had happened to that man, a month ago? Charles is right, it is dangerous. He squeezes his hand reassuringly, he's not angry at him, he's angry at everyone else and Charles has the bad luck of being the closest target. Unfair.

"I'm sorry." He frees his hand and strokes the side of Charles' head.

_The first time he did that, it was to calm Charles when he couldn__'__t stop shaking, the first night in the barracks. His fingers had brushed the badly shorn spikes of hair, different textures when the barber had left patches longer than others. In some places smooth skin, in others the fine brush of stubble. It had calmed him a little, and Erik as well, that first terrible night, and given him the determination to slip out of the bunk and steal Charles that shirt._

Erik's hand trembles, and for a moment the conversation is forgotten, a thousand miles removed from the memories haunting his mind. A touch on his face brings him back to the world, Charles' fingers brushing his cheek, bringing him back into the real world.

If that's all it takes the make him feel better, how can Charles be surprised he wants to… to…

He doesn't even know how to say it in English. He doesn't even know if there is a word for when two men what to do what they do. There should be, and it should be as sweet and comforting as Charles' touch, as strong and forceful as it had felt yesterday, lying close and warm and… Erik closes his eyes as Charles kisses him. "It's okay." He whispers.

"No." Not like that it's not. Because it's _not fair._ They don't deserve this. They shouldn't be afraid any more. They should be allowed to do this, whatever this will be. He should be allowed to kiss Charles in public, and Charles should be able to kiss him, and when they're alone they should be allowed to do things with their clothes off without being afraid someone will rush in and beat them or take them away or God knows what. "It's not fair." He sounds like a child.

"I know." Charles strokes his face. "I do want to…" He trails off. It's aggravating.

"What?"

"To… to have sex with you."

"Is that how it's said?" Sex, _płeć_, same thing. Charles can't look at him. Is there no word for it them? Erik smothers a snort, if there was one; it's probably been struck from the dictionary long ago. Still, he wonders. "Is there a word for…?" He waves a hand between them. "Sex for us?"

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Yes, there is. There are a lot of them, and none of them will ever pass Charles' lips. If he's got anything to do with it, Erik won't hear any of them either.

_Cain seemed to enjoy throwing those words at him, even after he__'__d taken up with Moria, sometimes he wondered if he__'__d done that just in an attempt to make him stop._

"_She doesn'__t know you__'__re a faggot then?"_

"_Do you ask her to bend over and bugger her up the arse?"_

"_No wonder you took up with a girl with no tits, I bet you can'__t get it up otherwise."_

In his heart, Charles was glad Cain hadn't survived to meet Erik.

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Charles doesn't answer, and Erik doesn't press the point, running one hand slowly along his chest. He changes the subject. "Where would you like to go?" They started the morning with wish-fulfillment and look what happened. It'll be breakfast soon, they may as well end it the same way. Who knew, that might come true too.

"Sorry?" Charles is jarred by the shift in conversation.

"If you could go anywhere, where would you go?"

"Oh." He pauses to think, one hand still rubbing Erik's cheek.

_He__'__d shaved yesterday, although the water was tepid when they finally got to it. Charles had picked up the razor hesitantly, as though wondering if Erik could now do it himself. Even if he could- and he couldn__'__t seem to, not yet- he still wouldn__'__t be able to see himself to do it. So he__'__d let Charles wield the razor for another day, and taken his turn with it afterwards._

"I'd like to go back to America." Charles says finally. When Erik looks at him with surprise, he shrugs. "As long as I'm with you, I don't mind. If they sent me back I'd be alone, but if we went there together…" He shrugs. The bed creaks. "You probably wouldn't like New York, but you'd like Westchester."

"Where your grandmother lives." He stumbles over the long word, and it comes out more like German than English. Charles doesn't mention it.

"Yes, there. It's very green."

"I don't mind the city, Charles."

_Not before, anyway. He__'__d always found the countryside rather dull. There was something exciting about the city, and he__'__d always liked staying with his aunt in Warsaw. He__'__d even, naïve child that he__'__d been, looked forward to it when his mother told him they were moving there, until he__'__d realized under what circumstances._

"New York then." Charles agrees. It's easy, this fantasy. And who said the reality would be harder? No harder than they've known, not by a long way. "We could work in a hospital."

"You could." Erik doesn't know much about medicine, other than their stay in the Auschwitz 'hospital' and that would hardly count as experience to any sane person.

"You could too, like the aids here. Only nicer, if more frightening." Charles smiles at Erik and Erik manages to smile back, yes, that might work.

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It's like building dreams in Auschwitz, they can imagine up to a point, but there are limits. What would happen then? Where would they live? What about food? No one would be feeding them there and Charles feels the old fear waking up. How could they do any of those things? What about taxes? Neither Erik nor he have papers or passports. It's impossible. A strange, alien world that's far beyond his understanding.

_He won__'__t ever let himself miss the camps, that__'__s ridiculous and unbelievable and the memories still haunt him, the cold and hunger and the fear, the everlasting fear. But sometimes, when the staff are talking about sending them away again, and the world opens up like an endless void they__'__re about to topple into, Charles wanted to be somewhere (anywhere, anywhere at all but not there) that he understood._


	15. Part Five, Chapter one

_This hasn't be beta-read, due to my beta reader going AWOL. If anyone feels like taking on the challenge, please contact me at I would be asking for more than just spellchecking, you need to have a good idea of the characters (ideally also a good idea of the setting, but I'll let that slide) to tell me where I'm going wrong._

**Part Five, chapter one**

Charles thinks its June by the time they finally reach the top of the hill. It's easier than he'd imagined, although having shoes that actually fit does help. The view is as breathtaking as they'd expected, the gothic architecture of the hospital make it look like a toy castle, the khaki tents congregating around it like badly hidden defenses, the road like a grey ribbon stretching away behind them. They've got their backs to a grove of trees and the warm, damp smell of rotting leaves and mushrooms makes him smile.

Erik is smiling too, he's left his coat in the tent and his bare arms are strikingly pale against the darker fabric of his shirt and the ink tattooed on his skin. His fingers are playing with his necklace; he's taken it off and is frowning at it in a way that's become rather familiar recently.

_Erik hadn't managed to repeat what he'd done with the pail, though not through lack of trying. In the last few wet, windy days spent huddling in their tent he'd tried and tried again and again with just about everything they owned, from the new book to Charles' old shoes, to no avail. They'd sit on the bed, Charles squinting through the dim light, trying to read while Erik experimented. Occasionally he'd give up and join Charles in looking over their newest acquisition, and Charles spent most of that time translating. He remembers lying on the bed, Erik's fingers tracing out a sketch of a ribcage, his lips moving over the names of the bones. Useless knowledge in this place, but knowledge nevertheless._

Charles runs his fingers over the book for the hundredth time.

_He liked the feel of it, the cheap binding crackling pleasantly under his fingers, a solid reminder that they're in a world where there are books. After three years he'd been starting to forget. _

He looks at Erik in sympathy. There's nothing more frustrating than failing at something you know you can do, and Erik's never been good at accepting his limitations. He sits closer anyway, and looks down at the pieces of silver on their chain.

"Is it just metal?"

Erik blinks, looking up from the silver, "I think so Charles." His hands tighten on the chain. "It feels different."

"Maybe it would work better with iron." He suggests, when Erik looks at him he shrugs, "The pail was iron, and it's a magnetic metal so I thought…" Another shrug.

Erik looks from Charles to the pendant. "Magnetic." He murmurs, tasting the word, and Charles realises he probably doesn't recognise it.

"Magnets," He tries to explain. After the last few days, he's used to it. "Metal that sticks to other metals."

"Magnets." Erik repeats, then frowns. "Metal that… sticks." He closes his hands tightly over the metal, then opens them, like letting a bird take flight. The chain lifts from his hands so fast it takes Charles a moment to understand.

"Oh." The pieces of metal are floating a few inches above Erik's hands, between their faces. They spin lazily, as though underwater, the chain tracing strange shapes through the air.

"Magnetics." Erik is smiling.

"Oh." It's like some bizarre, impossible illusion. He touches the metal with one finger and feels a brief burst of static electricity, it stops twirling and the chain molds itself over his finger. "That's amazing." He should be finding it hard to believe what he's seeing, but somehow part of him is ready to accept this as perfectly normal. Or maybe he's just become impervious to shock over the last three years. He looks down at the book, and wonders if there might be something in there to explain what's happening. He doubts it. He doesn't think this is something anyone has even heard about, let alone written about.

Erik shakes his head. "It's easy." He can't seem to believe it would be that easy. "When you said- It was that. Like… magnets." He shakes his head again. "It was easier with the iron."

"That makes sense," Charles says and almost laughs at his words. His friend is just demonstrating levitation and all he can say is that it makes sense. The chain tickles his hand, light as feathers.

Erik takes hold of one of the pendants, not holding it up, just holding it. The chain whirls between their fingers and Charles smiles as it cuts through the air between them, long, scything swings like the bars of a whisk.

--

It's like grabbing hold of a live wire- _an electric fence-_ but Erik pushes that thought away, he's not going to let it ruin this. The most striking thing is how _easy_ this is. It's like being blind and trying to see, only to realise you just haven't opened your eyes yet. Like trying to move something with your mind before you realise that you have hands. So easy, so very easy. He can feel the metal hanging there, not only with his hands- he can _feel_ his hands, as though the chain had become part of his body, with nerves and skin to feel- but with another sense entirely. He doesn't think it has a name in any language. He gives it an experimental nudge and the chain spins a little faster. Pulls a bit and it slows. Pushes it and it winds itself around Charles' wrist like a friendly snake. Charles doesn't pull his hand away, smiling in wonder, the pain and weight falling away from his face until Erik is smiling too, because this is so fantastic and beautiful and impossible, and if can get this right they will never have to be hungry or tired or scared again.

_The scream of bullets hurtling towards his back._

_The clenching claw of hunger in his stomach._

_The burn of the sickness he could no longer fight off._

_The fear, the overwhelming, inescapable fear that had followed them even to this place. The fear that having happened once, it could happen again. The fear of being separated. The fear Erik had wondered if they would be ever rid of._

If he could stop bullets- and if nothing else, he knew he could do that- or bend barbed wire… engines are complicated, it couldn't be too hard to get one to jam. Locks could be unlocked, bars could be broken, door hinges could be unraveled... What couldn't they do? What could be done to stop them? If he could control this properly, maybe get better at it… what would they have left to fear?

There's fear is in Charles' eyes as he turns his head away, looking back towards the hospital. And that very fear Erik hopes could be banished closes on his heart. It's a ridiculous fear, no one knows they're here, no one cares, and anyway they're too far away to be seen. No one could know what they can do. But Erik can't push it away, the sharp, stabbing dread. If the people here would take them away just for what they were for each other, what would they do if they could find out what Erik -- or Charles -- can do?

_He had only been in Mengele' s laboratory once, and that was too much. He hadn't realised the danger, not at first, and if anyone had told him he wouldn't have believed them. Charles hadn't believed him, he'd had to see with his own eyes to realise the truth._

_Mengele hadn't been there, for which Erik will be forever grateful. He wasn't there to see Erik's expression when he saw the tortured, ragged chunks of flesh that were all that was left of his latest experiment. The body had been opened up along the veins, revealing blood as green as antifreeze. He didn't see Erik's hands tighten on the handle of the broom he was supposed to clean the room with at the sight of the victims face, impossibly intact amidst the gore, mouth fixed into an eternal scream._

_He didn't see Erik drop the broom when he realised why he hadn't heard the cries, Erik's hand brushing along the badly-stitched length of the dead man's throat, where his vocal cords had been cut._

_He didn't see Erik flee the room, and didn't come back before Erik had been able to steel himself to go in and retrieve the broom. If he had, he might have started to wonder._

Erik's hands jerk, and the chain falls dead, hanging from Charles' fingers. Charles is right, it is dangerous. He can tell himself as much as he likes that the people here won't behave like the SS, he might even start to believe it, a bit. But he can't tell himself they won't behave like Mengele. Even Charles hadn't been able to believe that.

Charles takes his hands, the chain caught between their palms. The touch helps and Erik lets out his breath with a sigh. The skin is warm and dry, the chain sharp and cold, almost alive under his touch.

_Never to be afraid again._

Scalpels snap.

Knives break.

Bullets shatter.

They threaten him with metal, and if he can control that, they can never threaten him again.

"I could stop them." He thinks of Mengele, of the SS with their guns, of the German police who took that man away. "I could stop them." He repeats.

And Charles smiles sadly. "Erik, there are a lot of them."

Erik pulls his hands back, taking the chain with him. "I could get better." He insists. Then "You could- try."

He doesn't know how else to say it, but if he could stop bullets, Charles could stop people from ever pulling the trigger. He had stopped those dogs.

His friend flinches as though Erik has threatened to strike him, and looks away. "That's different."

It is different, but it needn't be. "You could try." It frightens him too, very much. He remembers Charles raving and screaming that night in the barracks, and wonders if he'd done the same while delirious with typhus. Remembering the hallucinations and terror, he lets the matter drop. Asking Charles to experience a real version of that, whatever the result, was impossibly selfish. He shakes his head and his free hand closes on Charles' wrist in apology.

Charles nods, pursing his lips. "I don't…" He stops, and tries again. "I don't want to try, but if I did," He shakes his head. "The only one I'd try it with would be you."

Erik frowns. It sounds like a good idea. Actually, it sounds like a perfect idea. The worst things in his head are the things Charles knows perfectly well himself, and he definitely likes the idea of Charles inside his mind, to be together even while apart, and always know if the other was safe.

"It's not you, Erik," Charles explains. "It's me. Those dreams," He presses a hand to his temple. "I don't want you to see them."

There's nothing Erik can say to that.

--

"I wouldn't mind, Charles." Erik says finally. He's pulled his hands away and is playing with the chain- with his hands, not his mind. He taps the side of his head, the chain clinking against his wrist. "I wouldn't mind."

_It was three days ago that Erik had made the same offer, with his body rather than his mind._

It's just as tempting, that trust.

_Erik lifting his head as Charles ran the razor down his throat. Their soap was coarse and crumbling, impossible to work into lather, but he'd done his best and was trying not to cut his friend. The razor was notched and blunt, but the inch-long sharp stretch he was using could still cut deeply._

_Erik growled something in his throat, and tilted his head further back, the tendons jutting out, the blue veins visible, the pulse beating beneath his skin, letting Charles shave under his chin._

Erik finds it so hard to trustanyone, these demonstrations mean so much.

_The German nurse was handing out food two days ago, under a tent of tarpaulin to keep the rain from watering the soup. She'd smiled at them, "No chocolate today, nein?"_

_Erik had bared his teeth, and Charles had seen her smile fade._

And to touch his mind would be nice, just like having sex would be nice.

_Charles was shaking so hard he'd almost fallen off the rotting hospital bed. The night was freezing but he was sweating uncontrollably, the fever burning through him. He'd felt the fear start to set in, the terror that they were not going to get through this. He wouldn't be able get up to work the next day. If he wouldn't go Erik would also refuse. Mengele would be performing an inspection tomorrow. His breathing grew rapid and desperate, the fear combining with the fever to drive him to near panic._

_Erik's hands had curled around his wrist, pinning it to the straw, his friend rolled over until his body was half on top of Charles', the contact calming the mad fear. "Shh…" Erik whispered in his ear, his thumb rubbing circles against his pulse._

_It seems impossible in retrorespect, but somehow, with Erik's weight against his and his voice murmuring soothing nonsense in his ear, he'd quickly fallen asleep._

Charles leans in against Erik's hand, and kisses his palm. Erik smiles, the contact feels as good to him as it does to Charles, he would enjoy it whatever form it came in.

"I wouldn't mind." Erik whispers coaxingly. His thumb rubs the soft spot between Charles' jaw and ear, he pauses, then taps Charles' temple. "Share everything, remember?"

Charles smiles, and leans in closer. He doesn't want to think about this, the very thought terrifies him, but if it means so much to Erik… "I'll try."

How, he has no idea. He has a vague feeling of… something, almost a separate place in his mind, but every time he tries to concentrate on it the dreams rear up in his mind like a sheet of flame. As a sheet of flame.

Charles shudders, and Erik slides an arm around him.

--

God, if it's this bad Erik's sorry he asked. It's slightly exasperating, much like Charles' refusal to have sex is exasperating, and like that, Erik knows he's right. He's right now, and Erik is far angrier with himself for asking. Charles might make it sound as though he's refusing for Erik's sake, but it frightens him, and remembering what had happened before he almost wishes he hadn't suggested it.

_Charles hadn't slept for the rest of the night. He'd lain there, as stiff and unresponsive as a piece of wood, silently hugging himself. Erik had been pressed behind him, arms around him, otherwise he wouldn't have known he was shaking. It had been awkward to try and calm him, murmuring reassurances Charles didn't understand and that wouldn't have helped even if he had. He'd rubbed Charles' shoulders, feeling the thin muscles stand out like steel. It seemed like hours that his friend lay like this, almost silent. After a while, his breathing had grown faster and louder, until he was almost panting, and was shaking so hard Erik was afraid he'd slip out of his hands. Finally he'd paused and given a strange sound, half-gasp, half-sob, before falling silent, the muscles relaxing under Erik's hands._

It's not fair. He knows that. He can't ask Charles to do anything he wouldn't, and this is no different. He would like to think he'd try, if he was in Charles' place, but he doesn't know. He doesn't know what it had felt like, to feel like you were dying, over and over again, in the gas chamber, and then in the crematorium. If he did, maybe he wouldn't be so eager to push Charles.

_It had taken months from the wounds in Erik's hand to heal. It was only when they had been sent to the hospital that the cuts from Charles' teeth had finally closed and scarred. They've never quite faded._

_He's never really blamed Charles for it, although he knows Charles blames himself, but he did wonder what it had felt like, to hurt so much that he'd bitten Erik's hand that hard and had barely noticed until afterwards._

Charles is looking at his hand, his right hand. The scars are there, faint and pale, only really visible when he clenches his hand, which he does. Charles runs his finger over the pale half-circle. Erik kisses him. _It's okay. _Charles smiles, and leans against him. Erik rests his cheek against Charles' head. This feels good, so good that surely Charles can see why it's worth taking such a risk, in intimacy and in… whatever Charles can do.

"I'll try." Charles mumbles again.

Erik rubs his cheek against Charles' forehead, and smiles. "Thank you."

--

The sun rises higher, and they retreat inside the trees. He takes the book in one hand, and Erik's hand in the other, the temperature's more bearable here, and his legs are stiff from sitting down for so long, it would be nice to walk for a bit. The sky's hidden behind layers of green, and the crickets have been left behind in the long grass. He can make out birdsong- probably the same bird that wakes them up every morning- and rustling in the sparse undergrowth.

Erik looks different here, without the backdrop of the tent of the hospital, the barracks or the blasted landscape of Auschwitz. More relaxed. More natural. More alive. He gives a strange, almost ironic smile, and Charles remembers what he told him about the shootings in the forest. Charles squeezes his hand.

"Is this like Westchester?" Erik asks.

"Not really. My grandmother's land doesn't have so many trees." He smiles, "It's like Oxford though."

"In England?"

"Yes, by the Thames, it's very beautiful. You'd like it, Erik."

_He'd really liked Oxford. Kurt Marko and Cain spent most of their time in London, Kurt to plan his sister's rescue. Cain, Charles neither knew nor cared. His mother spent most of her time alternating between the London and Oxford bars, and Charles was left to study in peace for once, without his mother's self-pity, Kurt's cruelty and Cain's behaving as though his aim in life was to make Charles miserable. It had been during one of these blessedly peaceful study sessions that he'd met Moria._

Charles rubbed the side of his face, another memory pushing itself to the forefront of his mind, overshadowing the more pleasant ones. "Like Compiègne too."

"The place in France?"

"Yes."

_The place in France. That was as good a name as any. A waiting place on the road to death. A few houses ringed with barbed wire and guards -- and dogs. The trees black shadows huddling right up to the fences- perfect cover. The wire hadn't been electrified, and Kurt's cutters had been making a slow but steady progression through the strands. Cain and Charles had been supposed to keep watch, his mother helping Kurt. He hadn't been keeping watch though, and neither had Cain, both of them had been watching Kurt and it probably wasn't surprise that by the time they realised something had gone wrong, the guards were on top of them._

Erik nods, and he's the one who squeezes Charles' hand. He looks pensive. "Do you miss them?" His voice is soft.

Charles isn't sure what to say. He doesn't ask about Erik's family, it's obvious how much he misses them, and in contrast it sounds heartless to say no.

It's the only answer he has. "Not really." He can't quite meet Erik's eyes and focuses on the bare packed earth underfoot.

--

They walk in silence. Erik twists the links of his chain between his fingers, the pendants knocking against them. It didn't tire him as much this time. It took a lot of concentration, and there's a faint, stabbing pain behind his eyes, but in comparison to the wave of exhaustion he'd felt from tipping over the pail, it's nothing.

Charles can't meet his eyes, and is staring at the ground. Erik releases the chain and takes his hand again.

"Do you think I'm a monster?" Charles looks at him, not accusing, or upset, but curious, probing. "For not missing them?"

His immediate reaction is _no, Charles, of course not_, his answer every time Charles has asked such a question.

Sometimes he thinks Charles thinks too much. His friend is constantly wondering of what others think- which isn't surprising, when he considered it- and more particularly, that they think of him.

_They hadn't spoken of that night in the barracks until after they had left the Sonderkommando. Erik hadn't had the strength to consider it, and God only knew what Charles had been thinking._

_It was only after they had been sent away to the comparative safety of the hospital that they'd spoken of it. It had been the first night, in the barrack, that Erik had rolled closer and kissed Charles again. Partly as thanks, and partly as exploration._

_Charles had stiffened and hadn't responded. It was dark and no one could have seen them, Erik pulled away hesitantly, wondering if he'd misunderstood Charles' hug those nights ago, although what else that could have meant he didn't know. "Charles?" He whispered._

_Charles had touched his face, scabbed fingers impossibly light against his skin. "Doesn't it bother you?"_

_He'd remembered the kapo rapist, and shook his head. "Not like that." His English was stilted and awful, but the familiar words relaxed Charles a little._

_"I love you." Charles sounded a little helpless. Erik smiled and pressed his face against Charles' shoulder, feeling truly happy for the first time in what seemed like forever. Charles' hand clenched on his arm, desperately, tightly, not letting go._

Erik just says "I know what monsters look like," and moves his hand to Charles' shoulder. Charles knows he isn't a monster, just as he had known he wasn't like that foul kapo. He just wants to know _Erik_ knows that too.

"You miss your family so much…" Charles pushes, to make sure.

"You don't." He doesn't understand, and yes, perhaps if it was anyone else he would wonder, but this is Charles, and Charles is anything but a monster. If the last three years hasn't proved that, nothing will.

_It's the clearest image he has of the last few weeks in Belsen, other than the terrible dreams. He held on to it as the only reality in a world of nightmares. Charles bending over him, filthy and starving, holding out a few pieces of cracked, stale bread and begging Erik to eat them, eyes shining with desperation. To be that hungry, but still be refusing to eat until Erik had taken his share._

"Were they so bad Charles?" He's hesitant. He's heard of the things some families could do to their children, and he doesn't want to imagine Charles like that, particularly with all he's suffered since.

Charles shrugs, "Not bad, but…" He looks at Erik, asking him to understand.

Erik shakes his head, no, he doesn't understand.

"I don't remember what it feels like to miss them." Charles murmurs. "I wouldn't miss Kurt or Cain anyway, and my mother…" He shakes his head. "You wouldn't have wanted to meet them anyway."

"I wish you could have met mine." It's a sharp, familiar pain, that loneliness. To have been part of so much and to now be alone.

Charles nods, and looks at him with that same penetrating expression. "Even-" He waves a hand between them, "With us?"

Erik nods slowly. "They would understand." Perhaps it's nostalgia, or a blessing that he never knew that betrayal, but he can't believe it. His family had loved him, and they would have understood that he loved Charles. Remembering them brings up a lump of unshed tears in his throat, he can't cry, but oh, he wishes he could. They would have loved Charles, he's certain of this, if only because Erik loved him.

_He hadn't had many friends as a child, only his sister Else, with whom he'd shared a room and so many secrets. The rebel, kissing the boys from the village, playing with her brother by the stream and in the woods. His friend, who he always defended when their family took her to task, and who always defended him in turn. Sharing secrets, dreams. Else's tales of who she wanted to marry, Erik's dreams of becoming an engineer. Leaving the farm for the city together, and damn the parents. If he'd had a choice… if he could…_

Erik looks at his hands, hands that can stop bullets. Charles hand rubs the back of his neck. The pain's sharper now, more piercing, and once again Erik wishes he could cry. Maybe that's why Charles isn't hurt by those memories, because he's been able to let them out. But then, he's cried before, and it hasn't helped.

_He'd cried when they died. All of them. He cried when his little sister died, aged barely a year. He'd cried when his little brother didn't come home and the twin girls died of typhus in their last year in the ghetto. He'd cried when his grandparents were killed. It had felt better afterwards, but when it had been their turn, and they had lined up in front of the grave, Erik had known he was crying, but couldn't feel it. He hasn't felt it since._

It occurs to Erik, probably because his mind it scrambling to find another topic to think about, that they have no idea where they are. They aren't lost, because the hospital is _that_ way and they've walking parallel to it. The ground is starting to slope down, and bits of earth and loose stones skip and roll down. They slow down, trying not to slip.

"That must be the road." Charles looks down, trying to see through the trees, it looks like a wall of green, but Erik thinks there might be some grey, and it would be in the right place.

Charles smiles, "Do you want to go back afterwards?"

Erik nods, he's getting tired and the headache's getting worse, a jabbing pain behind his eyes. The ground is unsteady and it would be nice to get back on a level surface.

He rubs his face, which only seems to make the ache worse. He is tired, more than he'd thought.

"Erik? Are you alright?"

He nods, which is a bad idea because it feels as though his brain's rattling loose.

"It's okay, we're going back."

He's feeling dizzy, he stumbles and his foot slips. Charles shoved the book under one arm and grabs his arms to steady him. Erik almost falls against him.

"Erik? Are you alright?"

Erik nods against his chest. He's just tired, the walk and the metal. He thought he was past this. He thought he was stronger than this.

--

Oh god. He's been in this position before because Erik _insists_ on driving himself to breaking point before he'd consider mentioning anything might be wrong, but it feels worse now somehow, if only in contrast.

_Erik doubling over in pain, he would have staggered straight into the Kapo had Charles not caught him in time. His teeth gritted against the pain in his shoulders, not allowing a cry to slip through, the wounds aggravated from the day's backbreaking work._

_Hands bleeding freely, bitten through to keep Charles from screaming, staining his shirt, scraped raw on the bramble stems from having to do both their work on his own._

_Stumbling, almost falling face-first into the filthy packed snow on the death march. Charles catching him and dragging him back to lean against him. Whispering him to rest, they might not be able to sleep but he should rest, lean against him and rest. The feel of that thin body against his, almost child-like in vulnerability, trembling from cold and exhaustion._

_Watching Erik reel back half-blind from the sunlight, trying to blink through the glare and hide what was happening for one more day. Not wanting Charles to know, not wanting to know himself and hoping if they denied it enough, it would go away._

Erik shakes his head a few times, and Charles tightens his grip, letting Erik lean on him as he eases them both down the slope. The added weight makes it harder to navigate, and there's a sheer drop of a good four-five feet where the trees meet the road. For once Erik doesn't complain when Charles encourages him to sit down on the sun-warmed ground and let him get down first.

It's not hard, starvation weakens the bones so he doesn't risk jumping, but someone had long ago built a wall to stop the earth crumbling onto the road, and the unmortared stone offers plenty of footholds. He leaves the book with Erik and once down he holds up his arms to his friend. Erik takes the book and slides his long legs over the side, takes Charles' arms and slips off.

It's a good idea, but like many ideas it relies on health and strength Charles doesn't have. Erik's full weight hits him and he staggers sideways and they both fall into the grass on the verge. It's a strange, slow collapse, leaving them both breathless but unhurt, the smell of dew-wet grass in their noses.

Erik rolls over and sits up, he rubs his face and draws his knees against his chest. "I'm sorry."

Charles shakes his head, also sitting up. Erik's shirt has grass-stains on it. If anything this is an improvement on the graying fabric. Charles brushes bits of half-dried mud and twigs from his trousers. "How are you feeling?"

Erik rubs his hand from his forehead to the back of his neck, and shakes his head. He looks groggy and confused.

"It's alright." Charles reassures him, and it is. Even the immediate panic at being in an unfamiliar place is slowly fading, it has no basis to rely on. Erik's tired, this is a quiet, comfortable place and they're alone in it. Erik can rest until he feels well enough to walk back. No one is expecting them, there's no roll-call here. The panic fades with each breath. Erik yawns.

Charles rests his back against the wall, it's rough, but the sun's been beating on it all morning and it's like leaning against a radiator. Erik leans against him, head on his shoulder, yawns again, and Charles can feel his eyes flutter closed through the thin fabric of his shirt.

_Sitting with their backs against the wall of a barrack, the few precious days of spring when the warmth was a blessing rather than a thirst-driven torment. Feeling the sunlight beat on the old wood and warm them through their thin winter clothes._

It's a warm day, but Charles pulls the discarded coat over Erik's shoulders anyway and tries not to shiver.

--

He must have dozed off, because he can definitely remember waking up. It's Charles' hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Erik's eyes snap open and the hospital's hard-won assurance drains away in an instant. His heart's hammering in his throat and he grabs hold of Charles' arm out of reflex, no matter what might happen, they stay together.

The sunlight is almost blinding, he hasn't been sleeping long, and the sun is still blazing down. He squints through the mass of green and gold, trying to pick out the threat.

"There." Charles points to the right. Erik rubs his eyes and looks.

It could have been a beetle, he has to rub his eyes again to focus on it and when he does, his heart once again lodges in his throat.

It's a car.

It's not the open-backed canvas truck that brought them the clothes, nor the black police van of Charles' nightmares.

_Nor is it one of the sleek cars that were all that he knew of German vehicle design. He'd seen them before, in Warsaw, when they stayed with his mother's sister before the ghetto. He'd admired them from a distance, and would have been angry his parents had forbidden him to take a closer look if he hadn't already known what would happen if you did. One of his old schoolmates had, and Erik was glad his mother had pulled him away before he'd seen what had happened._

Instead it's very plain, a rectangle on wheels, drab, matt black where the sun glances off it. And it's definitely coming this way. There's only one road, and it leads to them. They can see it quite clearly from where they are, and when it gets closer, whoever's in the car will be able to see them too.

Erik clambers to his feet, his legs aching and unsteady after sitting for so long. There's no shelter her unless they climb back over the wall, the verge is empty of anything but long grass, and on the far side is a steep drop. He collapses back down. The car is getting close, they have no time to hide. Those in the car would see them either way. He and Charles huddle down in the long grass, hoping that if the driver does see them, he won't pay them any attention.

_Shoulder to shoulder. Eyes on the ground. Roll call. Not daring to look up, the jeers, laughter and shouts of the guards ringing in their ears. Gritting their teeth when one from their barrack attracted the Kapo's attention. Closing their eyes at a shot. Hoping, desperately, blindly, that they wouldn't be next. Their hearts banging against their ribs because there was no way of being sure, there was no reason. It was sheer chance. It was always sheer chance. They owed their survival only to luck._

And please, please let it not have run out yet. He tries to think like Charles, reasoning away the fear. The Germans have lost. This is the middle of nowhere. They are almost in sight of the hospital. They shot all the SS. Who would be so desperate to kill them that they would take the risk to drive all the way out here? How would they know?

But again. The Germans have lost, the allied soldiers would be too hard a target. They are in the middle of nowhere, and no one would know. They are almost in sight of the hospital, but not quite. They shot all the SS, because of them, they would think. It was all their fault. They would know the hospital was helping the camp survivors, and would be hoping that some would be trusting or foolish enough to wander a little too far away. Sheep and wolves. He thinks of the dogs Charles is so terrified of, and shivers.

Charles cranes to see over Erik's head. Erik looks at him and Charles' eye are narrowed. "I think that's an English car." He murmurs. "The driver's on the wrong side."

The car turns a corner towards them, he doesn't recognise it, and although that doesn't mean much Charles is right, and hopes the driver came with the car. More than that though, he hopes they will be lucky and the car will drive past.

The car's engine growls and clanks in protests as the car slows beside them and Erik forgets how to breathe. Maybe it's because of earlier, but he can almost feel the car, as he could the pendant, or the pail. He wishes desperately he knew how to do _something _with it. He can knock over buckets and twist a chain, but what can he do against a car? Beside him, Charles is stiff as a board, Erik can feel his hand clench against his thigh. Like Erik, he's been trying to convince himself, and like Erik, it hasn't worked.

The door doesn't open, instead the dust-stained window is wound down and the man on the passenger side leans out. He's heavily tanned beneath a broad-brimmed hat, and his spade-shaped beard sticks out from the car like a violin. He squints at them. "You from the hospital?" His German is horrific, but Erik presses harder against the wall, as though trying to blend into the stonework.

The man sighs, and pushes his hat back, his brown hair is thinning, but almost made up for by his thick eyebrows. His eyes crinkle as he squints at them. "You from the hospital?" He repeats, this time in far better English.

Erik relaxes about two inches, but Charles nods guardedly. He's still tense, but no longer so ready to run. The man nods, "Ah." He's tall and heavy-set. His face is lined beneath his beard, he must be almost fifty. He looks at them, and Erik knows that look, that pity. There's no disgust, though. "You're from the hospital." There's an odd weight to his words, his English is excellent, but slightly accented, it's not German though, and that's enough right now.

--

Charles wonders what the man must think, looking at them. The two of them, dirty from their walk, their third hand clothes, their thin bodies showing every relic of the last few years. He's surprised the man needs to ask.

It wasn't a question, but Charles nods again.

The man nods in turn. "This is the road to the hospital, isn't it?" Charles can't quite place his accent, it's odd, almost a little like Erik's.

He risks his voice, "Yes."

The man frowns at him, taking note of his own accent, but doesn't mention it. "I'm the doctor. I'm here for the young woman." He sounds almost apologetic.

"Where are you taking her?" Charles doesn't know why he cares, only that he feels as though he should. Erik might be comfortable caring only for the two of them, but it just doesn't feel right. He should feel for someone, and it might as well be her.

The doctor looks at them thoughtfully. "Are you… friends of hers? Relatives?"

Erik shakes his head, but doesn't speak. "Not… really." Charles finishes.

The man sighs. "How far is it?"

Charles has no idea, and shakes his head. A mile? Three? It feels like they've been walking all afternoon.

The man shrugs, "Would you like a lift?"

Charles hesitates, and looks at Erik. This man isn't English, or American, but he isn't German either, and Erik's tired. Erik looks back at him, he's paler than usual, and probably more tired that Charles has realised, since he doesn't immediately shake his head.

It's a risk, but it's not much of one and Charles slowly gets to his feet. The man smiles encouragingly, and Erik sends him a warning look, then gets up himself.

The car is hot and stuffy, the smell of warm leather and petrol almost overpowering, he collapses on the far side, and Erik slumps almost against him. Charles can feel the tension in his frame. The man reaches out of the window and slams the door closed. He tenses involuntarily, and feels Erik do the same.

The door isn't locked. There's the handle. He can feel it with his hand, he could open it any time he wanted to, and even if it is locked, there's the handle for the window, he can wind it down and climb out. They're not trapped, they're not. They're not.

If the man sees their reaction, he doesn't show it, and the man in the chauffeur's seat switches on the engine. Charles feels Erik relax a little as the car starts up.

"Where are you from?" The doctor looks around at them as they start to move.

Charles hesitates, but he's lived this lie so long it would be pointless and downright dangerous to give it up. Hoping the man won't ask the obvious questions, he answers "Poland." It's true enough, in a way. He certainly doesn't feel like an American anymore. He doesn't feel like anything anymore.

The man nods grimly. "I've heard about that." He doesn't push, for which Charles is grateful. "Which one did you end up in? Dachau?"

"The train." Erik grinds the words out, Charles looks at him in surprise.

"Ah, I heard about that too. The one from Belsen?"

The name, just dropped like that, as though it was nothing. It probably is nothing to this man, he doesn't look like a camp survivor. To him, Belsen's just a place.

Belsen isn't just a place. It's a key. It's a key to the locked box of all the memories Charles is trying so hard to bury. It's not working, because even mentioning that place is enough to break it open again and for the memories to crawl out.

_They hadn't arrived by train, the station was too far away for that. They'd been packed into a truck and driven the last few miles to the gates. It was freezing cold, and although they'd long since lost track of the days Charles thought it might have been February. They'd huddled down on the floor of the truck, shoulder to shoulder with as many people as possible, trying to stay out of the freezing wind cutting through them._

_He'd managed to find better shoes, taken from one of the men who had been on the train with them- coal wagons open to the sky. The man had been delirious even before he'd been thrown in, and after two nights open to the night's snow, he'd died. Charles had watched the two other prisoners in the wagon trying to help him, while he and Erik watched with a sort of dull apathy. Later, one of them had given Charles the shoes. He'd taken them numbly, wondering why the men didn't just take them for themselves, and what they'd want in return._

_The two men had been in the truck with them. They arrived and when Charles slipped and fallen on the snow covered ground, his new shoes providing scant purchase, and his cramped legs no support, Erik had caught him and one of the men had turned to him and shaken his head. "Muselmann. You're wasting your time."_

Charles presses against the leather of the car, the cold of that night following him even into the sweltering heat of the car. Erik nods stiffly in answer to the man's question.

_Erik had snarled at those men, not a word, at least not one Charles could understand, just a snarl. The man had shrugged and left them, hurrying along in the disorganized column following in the wake of the SS._

_Muselmann. Erik hauled him upright and pushed him, trying to get him walking. It was one word that was shared throughout the camps. It was a sight shared throughout the camps. Someone so drawn and exhausted by suffering that they had just given up, died inside. No point wasting your time for them, they were already dead. Their bodies just hadn't caught up yet. That man had taken him for one of them._

"I've a colleague working there." The man continues. "You're lucky, little hospital like this. It's a madhouse over there. Half the survivors have typhus and the other half are dead." His face twitches, belying his words. "They don't have the manpower to deal with this."

_Erik's face, hollow, staring, lost in fever dreams._

Typhus had been everywhere in Belsen, with so many to care for, would there have been enough of the vaccination for Erik? And so regularly? Their hands are trapped between them, out of sight and Charles holds Erik's tightly, and receives as squeeze in return.

"You've been there?" Charles' voice comes out a little hoarser than he'd have liked, but talking, even talking about this, is better than thinking.

The man shakes his head, "As I said, a colleague. I've been working in Dachau, they're setting up a DP camp there." At their blank looks, he explains. "Displaced Persons camp. Like this one."

Is that what they call it? It makes them sound like refugees. Charles supposes they are, but it's hardly their fault. Where else are they supposed to go?

--

It's strange to be in a car, like this. Erik's never really been in a car, only trucks, and it's very different. Not only because of the comfort, he could almost feel the car before, and he's sure he can feel it not, a faint humming, like a distant hive of bees, not heard for much as sensed. It's a comforting sensation, and it reminds Erik of the truck that had first taken them to the hospital. He relaxes a little more, this is safe, they're now within sight of the hospital, they'll be there soon. He strokes his thumb over Charles' hand, his friend is still tense.

"Interesting book." The man has spotted the book on Charles' lap. "Is that from the hospital by any chance?" His tone is slightly patronizing, like an indulgent parent finding his child at some small mischief.

Charles nods. "We borrowed it." He sounds defensive.

"You're not a doctor by any chance?" He's smiling, Erik can see his beard twitch. "We could use some good doctors."

"In Dachau?" There's a touch of irony in Charles' voice.

The man snorts. "I did in Dachau what I'm doing here; finding people who need medical attention that cannot be provided and moving them to somewhere that can provide it. Like that girl of yours. Not like you but…" He trails off pointedly, and Erik suspects that if they were to claim medical training, he would not be asking for proof. "As I said, we could do with some help."

Charles doesn't look at him, Erik doesn't look at Charles. The car pulls up to the makeshift gate at the front of the hospital. The structure that had seemed so imposing in a typhus delirium now revealed to be nothing more than a few fences stacked together. One of the aids is already hurrying to push it open.

"We do have… some training." Charles says at last. It's an awkward moment, anything he says will sound like a lie, but Charles pulls it off quite well. But then, it isn't a lie, not for him.

_He told Erik about it a few days after they had first met, in the unending first days, standing on roll call for hours on end. They'd stood together, and whispered when the guards and kapo were out of earshot. Between the bad German and bad English, they'd managed to talk fairly well. He couldn't believe Charles was American, and that he'd managed to get himself into this situation through a run of bad luck. He could believe he was a medical student though, and after the first day of standing bolt upright, and feeling his shoulders slowly stop screaming as Charles gave him a backrub, he was deeply grateful._

It seems almost absurd, they'd dreamed of something like this. Perhaps it's not so strange, in this world, to be able to want something and just reach out and take it. Perhaps before, it used to be like that, but Erik's not used to it.

Neither is Charles, he's talking carefully, like a man treading dangerous ground and waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Where is this place?"

The man smiles again. "Not in Germany."

Erik speaks up, "Where?" If he says America, it would be just too strange and Erik plans to refuse outright.

"Palestine."


	16. Part Five, Chapter two

Part five, chapter two

It doesn't take long to discover that they're not the only ones who have been offered the choice to leave. Erik suspects the man -- Dr. Shomron, as he introduces himself -- would have been very happy to invite along just about anyone who wanted to leave; which is almost everyone. Unfortunately, for one reason or another, he's only allowed to take the very sick. He and Charles follow the doctor like lost ducklings as he enters the hospital. It's much emptier than Erik remembers it, although the aids and nurses still look frazzled and short of sleep. They are delighted when Shomron tells them why he's here, although they shoot Erik and Charles odd glances when they follow the doctor inside the ward.

"They'll be leaving with us," Shomron explains before they can stop them. "We could use some help over there. Now, if you could be good enough to show us who else should be leaving with us, we'll be out of your hair soon enough."

Erik hates this; he hates how the knot of fear -- completely irrational in this place -- refuses to go away. It's not a dangerous place; it's probably the least dangerous place they know right now, but it's unfamiliar, so many unfamiliar places are dangerous, and it frightens him. He hates that. And he hates himself most of all. He instinctively takes a step towards Charles, only to find his friend has felt the same, and they bump shoulders, almost tripping over each other's feet. Shomron looks back at them, and they disentangle themselves.

The nurses bring them to the hospital doctor, who leads them around the wards. Erik's not sure what they should be looking at. Some of the patients look almost normal -- or at least, as normal as he or Charles look, which isn't normal at all -- while others are behaving strangely. One man is sitting up, but doesn't appear to be looking at anything, rocking rhythmically. There are scabs on the back of his head from banging into the iron bedstead, and the nurses have had to stuff a pillow behind his head to stop any further injury. Several more are lying in a fetal position, eyes open and blank. One woman is chewing on her fingers, not noticing they are wrapped in gauze.

He's amazed they survived at all. It's all so sickeningly familiar.

_Most people like that didn't. By that point they didn't care what happened to them. By that point death would have been a mercy. Erik avoided them, tried not to think about them__;__ everybody did. Because if they did, they would wonder what could bring people to such a state, and they would know, because it was the exact same thing that had happened to them. And if they thought about that too long, they would end up in the same state._

Erik has to fight down the urge to reach for Charles. There had been times… Perhaps were still times…

_He wouldn't have survived without Charles. He knows that __as well as he knows his own name. A good deal of this is just plain common sense; if Charles hadn't been on the train, he'd have arrived in Auschwitz crippled and would have been killed immediately. If he had been alone in Belsen__, __he'd have starved to death before the typhus got him. Simple. Common sense. And easier to accept than the other reason, that if Charles hadn't been there, he might not have been able to resist the impulse, almost overwhelming at times, to just lie down and give up. He didn't want to think like this, but he couldn't refute it. All he had to think about was what he would have done had Charles not survived, or if they were separated now._

_He doesn't want to think about it. He knows the answer._

He can't help it, and glances at his friend. Charles is staring at the bed in the far corner, and Erik recognises the girl. She's no longer screaming; instead she's one of those staring at the ceiling without moving. Charles gaze tracks from her, to the next bed with its rocking occupant, to the woman biting her hand, then looks away with a shudder Erik can certainly empathise with.

"Muselmann." He reaches over to touch Charles' arm, but starts back when Charles steps on his foot.

It's more of a shock that any real pain, but Charles' eyes are burning. "No." He hisses. "They are _not._"

"Charles?"

"I'm sorry." He seems almost out of breath. "But they're not." He takes a deep breath. "They are people, Erik. Like us. And we are going to help them. We _can_ help them."

Erik is about to speak, but decides against it. For once, Charles is right. The thought frightens him, and again he feels as though the world is opening up under him, no longer obeying the old, cruel rules he knows. He looks back the patients in the ward, feeling lost. Charles is the one who touches his arm to comfort him. "Come on." He nods towards the two doctors standing beside the girl. "If they want us to help, we should start."

--

The real world might not be the mythical, longed-for place he'd dreamed about, people might behave in ways that remind him of the camps, but God, Charles isn't going to let Erik become one of them. He's overreacted, he knows that, and he'll apologize again once they're alone, but when he remembers the look on Erik's face, the way he looked at the patients… That closed-off look, not letting himself feel for them for fear of what it would do to him. Staying cold in the face of human suffering because pity would weaken him.

_It had been something that had shocked him to the core, those first few days__:__ the cheapness of human life. Not just from the guards -- that was easier to understand, if no less repulsive -- but from the other inmates. They helped each other stand during the interminable roll-calls, shared food with friends and kept watch over each other, but there was a reason. Everything, no matter how small, was never selfless, they always expected something back. No one would help those who couldn't help you back._

He'd hated in the camp, even when he began seeing it in himself, but dear God they don't need _that_ here and Charles never wants to feel or see it again, especially from Erik.

_At times, he had wondered if Erik ever thought about him like that, and what his friend had expected back. He doesn't think like that now, any more that Charles does, but once, had Erik ever looked at him with eyes like that? He couldn't remember, perhaps because he hadn't wanted to._

Shomron has put a pair of glasses on and is waving a pen in front of the girl's eyes, checking for any reaction, although Charles suspects that if she were to suddenly wake up and ask him what he was doing he would still find an excuse to take her along. The examination is just a formality. Her eyes don't follow the pen, staying fixed on the ceiling.

"She's been like this for weeks, since we sent her out."

"How was she before?"

"…Unstable." The hospital doctor clearly expects some sort of reprimand. "She would have lucid phases, before lapsing into… this. We thought it was just a side effect from an illness."

Shomron's mouth jerks, not pleased, but he doesn't remark on the man's actions. "And now? Any change?"

"None."

"What have you been feeding her?" He replaces the pen in his breast pocket.

"The same thing as everyone else," He looks guiltier still. "She eats if you feed her, but otherwise…" He spreads his hands.

"Hmm." Shomron brushes down his shirt, and then turns to them. "What do you make of this?"

He's smiling, but Charles feels Erik jerk as though it was a threat. His own mind seems to have jammed, trying to dredge up the information he knows must be in there somewhere. It's like rusty machinery, and the worse part is that Charles knows it's an easy question. The hospital doctor's eyes are on him too, and he feels the panic build up. They expect them to answer; they are supposed to have some modicum of medical training and if they don't answer, Shomron might reconsider. He wants them to look away, he doesn't want this, he wants to grab Erik and run, and this is an easy question, and he should know-

"Catatonia." He blurts out. Too loud. Erik jerks again, and Charles feels his muscles twitch as he knocks against him again.

The doctors are still staring at them, and Charles wishes they would look at something else; can't they see they don't want the attention?

The hospital doctor looks at Shomron and shrugs, Shomron nods, "Quite right." He's still smiling, and Charles wonders if he knows the effect he's having on them, and if he really is the best man to look after people even worse off than they are. They are beckoned over, and Charles has to tug on Erik's arm to get him to move.

Closer to, the girl looks quite well. She's very young, fourteen at most, and very pretty; with long dark hair and large eyes, and much healthier than most on the ward -- healthier than he and Erik, in fact.

"Was she in Dachau?" Shomron asks.

"As far was know. She was probably sent there from somewhere else, most of them say they were, but she didn't talk about it when we asked."

Can they honestly be surprised? Charles wonders who else they've tried to get information from. Maybe he and Erik would have talked, if they'd been asked -- _sometimes it had seemed like the whole point of surviving in the first place, to bear witness _-- but a child like this?

"Did she tell you anything?"

"Only her name: Gabrielle Haller."

"Have you tried to find if she has family?"

"Where do we suggest we start, given these circumstances! We tried to ask, but she wouldn't speak, so I would say no."

Shomron sighs and looks at Charles. He takes a step back and hits Erik. This is anything but comfortable, but if it allows them to go elsewhere, somewhere where they might be able to recapture at least the semblance of a normal life… He has no idea what Palestine is like, but he imagines it would be warm, and at least safer than here.

"Well," Shomron says, "We're expecting the trucks later today. It's not the most ideal option, but it can't do any more harm" -_than you've already done_ goes unspoken- "And she would do better in one of our hospitals, and it would relieve the overcrowding here."

"You'll be taking others then?" The relief is barely disguised in the hospital doctor's voice.

"Those in this ward to start with. More if we're able to." He glances at the two of them. "You probably don't know that the British are being very unhelpful when it comes to allowing people into Palestine. Bad enough that they wouldn't allow people in before this… this…" Words fail him, and he shakes his head with a fury Charles can definitely empathise with. The doctor wasn't in the camps, but Charles wonders how many he's lost in them. "But they wouldn't even allow them in now to recover." He gives a slight smile, almost hidden by his beard. "I don't have nearly as many permits into the country as I would like, but if I have some, and if those coming in are like this girl here, I would like to see what kind of man would turn them away."

Charles can name at least five off the top of his head, but keeps his mouth shut.

--

Erik really hopes this isn't going to backfire. That the British are more reasonable than Nazis and won't shoot them if they don't allow them in. It's a silly thought, the British army would hardly have saved them from the train to shoot them later, but the fear doesn't leave.

He and Charles have been dismissed back to their tent to 'pack.' The way Shomron said it; he obviously expected it would take them a while. He'd barely been able to stifle a snort. They have at best four sets of clothes each and not much else. Hardly worthy of being called 'packing.'

It's only one the way back that Erik realises they don't have anything to pack with. The same thought has obviously struck Charles and they hesitate, then shrug. They can probably carry their meager belongings in their hands if need be.

The tents look strange when they reach them. It's hard to imagine that when they left, they didn't know it would be one of the last them they would be here. When the trucks come to take the patients away, they will be leaving with them.

He'd disliked this place, this nowhere, but now that it's time to leave, he doesn't want to. It's safe here. They'd been so scared of being sent away, and although they're not really being sent away -- at least they know where they're going -- the dread of being lost in a fathomless, uncertain world will not be banished.

Erik had never thought he'd be in a position to miss this place, but despite the attitudes of the nurses, it's the first decent place he's been to in… in…

_Crawling through a chink in the wall around the ghetto, his brother at his heels. It was __tight, and even with so little to eat, he was growing too tall to fit. He didn't shove the bag of stolen food through first, in case someone on the other side -- someone as desperate as he was, with a family as hungry -- stole it._

_A shout, a scrawny, ragged woman pointing at them and shrieking for the police -- "Thieves! Jew thieves!"_

_His brother shoving him through in panic, the bag falling from his hands and running, seeing his brother race off in the other direction, the last time he'd ever see him._

_The police van driving towards his old house, and those defending it. Pushing the cart away while their erstwhile neighbors laughed. The same police who'd spoken at his school. The same neighbors who'd let him take apples from their orchard. The same people he'd known all his life. His sister's boyfriend spitting at her, egged on by his friends._

Charles tugs at his arm. He'd stopped in the middle of the road. He blinks, then starts forwards again. Is anywhere truly decent? Is there anywhere that is truly safe? They threatened him with morphine here, which would have killed him as surely as a bullet or gas. Would Palestine be any safer? Is there anywhere they can run to where they will be safe? Safe to live, safe to love, safe to be…what they are?

They reach the tent, walk inside and flaps fall closed, sealing them into their little cocoon of security.

Charles touches his face, eyes narrowed in concern, and Erik can't help himself, wrapping his arms around his friend and pulling him into a tight hug. Charles' hand drops to his waist and he hugs back. Maybe it's just from the tiredness, the long walk and the metal and the emotional disruption, but Erik suspects he should be crying right now. He presses his cheek against Charles' head, and screws his eyes shut, willing tears to come.

As so often before, they don't.

Charles gently pulls away, although he keeps his hands on Erik's shoulders. "Listen. Let me gather what we have. We won't be leaving for hours yet. Get some sleep."

It's the best idea Erik has heard all day.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It probably means a great deal about his state of mind that when Charles shakes him awake a few hours later; Erik jerks awake on autopilot and throws his legs over the side of the bed, trying to climb off the bed as thought it were a three-tier bunk before remembering where he is and collapsing on the floor.

Charles has his hand over his mouth, hiding a smile. "How are you feeling?"

Feeling? Better. A lot better. His mind feels clearer and sharper, and the memories that were threatening to pound his mind to pieces have been pushed back as far as they can go. "Are we leaving?"

Charles nods. "I think so. The trucks have just arrived and I think you'd expect us to help them move the people."

Erik gets up; his legs are stiff from the walk and his hip hurts where he landed on the floor. Charles is sitting on the bed with two oddly shaped bulging bags. They look like the shirts they had been given on first coming here. Charles has stuffed their other clothes in them and tied up the holes, making crude sacks. Erik picks up his, and throws his coat over his arm -- it's too hot to wear, but he likes it and won't leave it behind. Charles also gets up. He's got his shoes on, and Erik was too tired to take his off before going to bed, and they move towards the door. Erik looks back at the ragged camp-bed, the sagging tarpaulin, the ruined cardboard and wood covering the floor. Their home for the last two months.

"When I was younger," Charles says softly, "And we went on holiday, we would sit on the sofa just before we left and imagine where we were going to. My mother said it brought good luck."

Erik's hand covers his smile. "When we went away, I would go around my room and remember where everything was, so if a thief came when I was away, I would know what was missing and could tell the police."

They smile at each other and look around the room again. "Were you thinking about Palestine when I was asleep?" Erik whispers.

Charles shakes his head. "I tried, but I have no idea what it's like."

Erik doesn't either. "It's can't be worse."

Charles nods. "It can't be as bad."

And with that certainty at least, they leave.


	17. Part Five, Chapter three

Part five, chapter three

Shomron isn't in the car they get into, is probably staying in the following trucks with the patients. They'd helped carry the patients into the army vehicles -- _so similar to the one that had brought them here_ -- and had been shooed into one of the jeeps. Charles hopes they won't decide that they don't need the extra help after all and just drop them off in the middle of German nowhere. He hopes one day he'll stop thinking like this.

But then, there's little enough to do, just sitting in the jeep watching the world go by. It's not as hot as the car, but Erik's already carsick and leaning back with his eyes closed. The driver is the same one who drove Shomron and themselves, with a man they don't know in the passenger seat. Neither of them talks, although Charles can see the second man sneaking the odd look at them through the rear-view mirror.

_Eyes staring out from behind a lace curtain Charles would have liked to stop and stare at. Such delicate work. His grandmother owned such lace; his mind coughed up the memory of tracing its patterns during the interminably long dinner hours. A young woman was staring at them; the curtain twitched up just far enough to watch them trudge past. The room behind her was dark, but Charles imagined it, a simple rustic room, a warm and cozy bedroom perhaps, or a pantry full of food. Relief from exhaustion and hunger no more than ten feet away, all in this woman__'__s power. She saw him looking, and tugged the curtain back into place._

Charles looks away, and goes back to looking out of the window, trying to ignore the cold, hard knot of fear in his stomach. Each passing moment takes them further from the hospital, from the only safe place they know. It would take them hours- maybe even days- to walk back by now, and soon it would be too late and they would be lost.

Carefully, checking that both men's eyes are on the road, Charles slides his hand along the seat and touches Erik's arm. The skin is warm and he can feel the thin muscles drawn tight. Not alone. No matter what happens, he will not be alone. His friend opens his eyes and squints blearily at him, Charles smiles, amazed how even that small touch is enough to dim the fear.

Erik closes his eyes again, and Charles pulls his hand away, he doesn't want to be seen.

"How are you feeling?" His voice is soft, hoping the words will be lost under the grumble of the engine.

Erik leans a little closer, "I can feel the car." He murmurs. "If I think about that, I don't…" He puts a hand on his stomach, and grimaces. "…Feel so bad."

Charles smiles, although Erik can't see it. He wants to touch him again, even something as simple as holding hands. It might even be alright for brothers, but the memory of the man in the tents it still too raw.

And maybe Erik's the one who can read minds, because he gropes over for his coat and drops it between them, sliding one hand under the fabric. It's hot, and probably going to get uncomfortable, but Charles does the same, and feels Erik's fingers mesh with his. It's enough.

--

They stop, thank goodness, and Erik fumbles with the door handle to open it. He knows it, has spent the last few hours absently tracing over the metal in his mind, dissecting the slightly different feel of it from the rest of the car door. But he isn't so familiar with the feel of it in his hand, and it takes him a few moments to open the door.

His legs are stiff, and he wobbles over to the verge and collapses next Charles. The sun is dazzling after so long with his eyes closed, but it feels so much better to be on solid ground again.

The doctors are clustered around the nearest truck, discussing something among themselves.

"I wonder what happened." Charles hugs his knees.

Erik shrugs; it doesn't concern them. Charles is looking worried though, and Erik feels rather bad for spending the ride cataloguing jeep parts rather than talking to him. Judging by how tightly Charles had held his hand during the ride, his friend's thoughts haven't been at all pleasant.

But then, what would have been said? What could he have said while they were in danger of being overheard?

Charles gets up suddenly, swaying a little unsteadily. Erik follows suit, taking his arm to steady him. "Where are you-"

Charles has a closed, bitter expression that Erik's never seen directed at him before. "I am going to find out what the problem is." He looks more tired than anything, and Erik wonders what he's done wrong now. "We do need to help these people, Erik. They _are_ helping us, and it's- it's not the same."

_Not the same as working simply because you would be killed for not working. Avoiding as much of it as possible, hiding when you could, working only while watched, stopping the moment you were left alone._

Erik bites his lip, perhaps not, but he hasn't forgotten the man the police took away. As much as Shomron and the other doctors are willing to help them now, would that still be the case if they knew they were the same as that man? Or if they knew what he could do with metal and what Charles could do with his mind? They have agreed to work in order to get out of the hospital, and Erik doesn't want to draw attention to themselves unless directly called out.

They are called out anyway, Shomron turns around as Charles approaching, "Can you two- Oh good. We'll need to stay in the truck with the patients; we can't cope with just one staff member in each. If you could go in this one, and your friend in the one further down, the nurses will show you what to do."

At least, that's what Erik think he's said, since Shomron's talking fast, and his mind is unable to think past what he's just heard.

He wants them to _separate?_

_That deep-down kick of fear in his belly he got every time he turned and Charles wasn__'__t there, even if he saw him a heartbeat later. The slow, clenching grind of dread of time spent alone. The time Charles had hidden for a whole day. The rounds he__'__d been forced to make alone in the hospital barracks when Charles had first fallen ill with typhoid. The days he__'__d woken up, delirious and alone in Belsen, wanting to cry out for his friend, but terrified to do so in case someone overheard. Lying in silence, not knowing if Charles was hurt or dead or even here, just out of sight. Yes, that had been the worst._

Charles' face in a mirror image of his own, but even ash-pale, his manages to speak. "Sir, I- we know what to do. We can work together. We… work better together"

And thank god, that's about all he needs to say, Shomron barely looks at him but shrugs nonchalantly and turns back to the others, apparently discussing their route. Once again, Erik is beginning to have doubts if this man is really the best person to look after them. The man who'd been in the jeep with them does look at them, frowning slightly, although he looks more concerned than suspicious. Erik quickly turns away to head to the nearest of the trucks.

_They are clearly army trucks, although made up to look like ambulances and in a twist of truly sick fate, they look almost identical to those in which Erik__'__s family had ridden to their deaths, and to those in which so many others had, those first few months in Auschwitz. Some had even been canvas, like this one, their red cross a disgusting mockery._

All the same, it's almost a relief to climb in and out of sight. Erik's hands are still shaking. There is a faint smell of vomit and an even stronger smell of disinfectant, obviously one of the patients has the same problem as he does.

There are four people in the truck, four of those they saw in the hospital ward. Not the girl, she must be further down, but the man who had been banging his head against the bedposts, and the woman who had chewed her fingers bloody.

Neither can do this anymore, all four are strapped down, flat on their backs and unable to move. Erik understands why, even with the tailboard up they could still stumble and fall out, but he feels a sharp sting of sympathy all the same. If he had been in their position - and he could so easily have been, he only had to look at his reaction at the mere suggestion that he and Charles be separated- he wouldn't have liked to be tied down either.

Whatever arguments the doctors were having has obviously been resolved, because the truck trembles as the engine starts, and their driver comes around to put up the tailboard. He's a young man with a long, but smiling face. "If you need anything, bang on the divider. Mind you, it's pretty thin, so if you want to chat, feel free. It's a bloody boring drive."

Erik stares at him, and then nods stiffly; fine, whatever you like, just go away now please. The man's- boy, Erik corrects himself, he's probably younger than they are- smile fades a little, and he closes the flaps. Erik can't help but wonder what they look like to him. Frail, subterranean creatures, with pale skin and too wide eyes. He shakes the thought away and turns back to the people they're meant to look after.

The trucks starts with a buck, and Erik almost falls over, only saving himself by grabbing onto one of several straps hanging from the ceiling- probably meant for this very purpose. The beds are fixed to the ground somehow, as well as a small chair Charles is hanging on to. The ground is far bumpier than it had felt in the jeep, but for some reason the nausea has left him.

It's just as well, since Erik doesn't think Charles would like five patients instead of four. The man, his head still bandaged, is moaning again. Even in the low light he can see he's very pale.

Charles glances at him but he's already moving, looking around for where the nurses keep the basins. He finds several bedpans and two covered buckets with fixed lids. He picks up the bedpan and makes his way over to Charles' side.

It's not all that different to their work in the hospital barracks, with the benefit of far better equipment and the penalty of having the floor constantly moving. Once the man's finished being sick and Erik empties the bedpan into the bucket, there's not much more to do than keep them as comfortable as possible. One of them, a man who probably hasn't realized the ceiling he's staring at has changed, has been strapped down so tightly the straps are biting into his skin where the blanket has slipped. Erik loosens them, pulls the blanket into place, and ties him down again.

It's not hard. He and Charles had spent the best part of a year working more or less alone, with dozens of patients. Four isn't hard. There is a roster of when each person should be fed, and a column next to each, titled 'name'. Each one had been marked 'unknown', but then must have been filled in by the nurses' own whimsical ideas. The woman with the chewed fingers is 'Hephzibah', the staring man is 'Brutus', the small, thin boy no older than Charles is 'Epinet' and the man with the bandaged head is 'Valentino'.

"I suppose it's to make them seem more like real people." Charles murmurs, reading over Erik's shoulder.

Erik looks at 'Epinet' then away. That could very easily be him there, or Charles. If he had died in the hospital, or if Charles had- as had so many others from the train- he couldn't say either of them would have ended up any better. Would they have been the survivor there then? Curled in on himself with a stupid, made up name tacked on to make him 'more human'. Even imagined, the loneliness bites at his heart. Left alone in a world this horrible. He wonders who these people have lost.

_Muselmann._

_No, they are not._

For once, Erik admits Charles may have been right. He hadn't understood. They did need to help these people. Not because they would be killed if they didn't or even because it was getting them somewhere better, but because it was the right thing to do. It's a strange feeling.

--

There's no sense of time in the makeshift ambulance. There are scheduled stops to empty the buckets and dispense food and drink, but between them time might as well not exist. There's plenty of water, they save some part of the food they're given to last during the journey, and relive themselves in the buckets. The world outside might not be there, and Charles can't help but like it that way. It reminds him of the days spent in the tent.

_In the camps, and even some days __since, there were days when he felt everyone except for Erik could vanish tomorrow, and he would be perfectly happy. Their tiny kingdom of two expanded to cover the entire world. Not that the rest of the human race would be dead, just… not there. Unable to see or hear or hurt them. On the bad days, it sounded like heaven, and even on the good days it remained tempting._

It's a lot better than the car anyway. It's not as hot, and no one's likely to notice the small touches and caresses passed between them. It's a pleasant way of working, as they slowly fall into a rhythm, cleaning and feeding and giving water when they think it's needed. Then another thread of memory from his old life resurfaces, and Charles remembers that immobile patients need to be turned regularly to prevent bedsores. That takes them at least until early evening, judging by the quality of light through the canvas.

After that, Charles is beginning to feel very tired. Even with a nap, today has been exhausting. There's only one chair, and Charles waves for Erik to take it. His friend looks as if he might argue, but oddly, doesn't. Instead he smiles and sits, and as Charles is wondering how tired he must be to give in without objection, Erik wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him in to sit on his lap.

It can't be very comfortable. Although he's not very heavy, he has put on weight since they arrived, and the bumps in the road are jarring. Charles braces himself against the wall to try and lessen it, but Erik doesn't seem to mind. One arm goes around Charles' neck, and he pulls him in closer, nuzzling his neck. Charles can feel him smiling, and can't help but return it, resting his cheek on Erik's head. It is nice, and becomes even nicer when Erik kisses him.

He doesn't ask why Erik's doing this. If he wants to, that's good enough for him. Whether he wanted reassurance that Charles is there, or comfort in this admittedly very strange situation, or simply because it feels good, Charles isn't going to question it. He keeps an eye on their charges though, because one of them has to, and Erik is obviously preoccupied.

After a while, Erik stops kissing him, and just rests his head on Charles' shoulder, joining him in watching.

"How do you feel?" Charles feels the bones of his jaw press into his shoulder as he speaks.

"Just tired." He yawns.

It's infectious; Erik yawns too. "Yes. I wonder where they want us to sleep."

Charles hesitates, "Perhaps they have a spare bed." Unlikely, considering how eager Shomron was to bring as many people along. Charles wouldn't be surprised, if he took as many people as he could fit in the trucks. They may have to sleep outside.

_They__'__d sometimes slept outside in those first few weeks in Belsen. The camp was utterly overcrowded, and sometimes they__'__d found it impossible to find anywhere to sleep and ended up huddling in the freezing air outside, trying to find somewhere out of the wind. It__'__s the clearest memory Charles has of those horrible nights; circling the huts in the hopes of finding somewhere a least a little less cold. Freezing and shivering when they finally ran out of strength to search and clung together, unable to sleep until finally the sun rose and they crept inside to steal a bed from those who left._

Enough. It's probably June by now; the last few nights have been stifling to the point when Charles might have suggesting sleeping out of doors just to cool down. Besides, they could probably stretch out on the floor here if necessary.

--

They sleep on the floor of the truck that night, and the next, and in retrospect Erik is glad. Had there been a spare bed, or even one of the sleeping bags the others use, no doubt their willingness to share would have drawn questions. And sleeping alone is still and probably will always be impossible.

_He did wonder when that had happened, when Charles__'__ presence at night had stopped being merely comforting and become impossible to sleep or even relax without. Partially it was fear, as long as Charles was here, he wasn__'__t anywhere else and at least for the time being, Erik knew he was safe. But even afterwards, in the hospital tents, when the fear had died down as much as it was ever going to, even when he knew perfectly well where Charles was, he would always wake up almost as soon as he was alone, and not be able to sleep until his friend came back._

At least in the truck they can draw the flaps closed without comment and sleep together. The spare blankets kicked into a sort of nest, and even if it might not be as comfortable as the tent or the hospital, it hasn't been so long that they've forgotten what it was like sleeping in the barracks. After the long, uncomfortable day of tending to their four patients, sleep shouldn't be hard to find.

Erik's shoulders are killing him. It had been a relief to finally stretch out on the floor, the constant bending over; lifting the patients and hanging on to the straps had pulled his muscles to screaming point. He vaguely remembers that sleeping on bare boards is supposed to be good for a bad back. On the other hand, he's slept on bare boards for three years, and it hasn't made much difference.

It doesn't do much good now, the sharp pain ends and a deeper, duller pain sets it, as always, and no amount of turning over will shift it. After the third attempt, Charles sighs. "Roll over." He grumbles, sitting up.

Erik is about to argue, but even in the low light he can see Charles' expression. He isn't going to get any sleep like this, and if he isn't, then Charles won't be able to either. He takes his shirt off and rolls over.

Charles fingers automatically seek out the top of his spine, just below his neck and just above his shoulder blades, and dig in. The sharp pain flares back, but that's easier to deal with. For a while, he stays there, working his fingers into the knots along Erik's shoulders. Erik can hear the muscles crack, the pain dying away to a warm numbness, he mumbles something inaudible into the blankets, smiling.

"This is bad." Charles' voice is soft. "You should have told me it was getting this bad, why didn't you?"

"Couldn't have done much. While moving."

Charles doesn't answer, but Erik can feel him shake his head in exasperation, and smiles again.

The shoulders finished with, Charles starts working his way down, digging his thumbs on either side of Erik's shoulder blades, first pushing in, then sliding up and down, easing the knots. With the ease of long practice, he pays special attention to the base of the shoulder blades, and Erik lets out another long sigh and relaxes again the floor, he's still sore from the rough massage, but the pain is gone and exhaustion is settling in. He yawns.

"Almost finished." Charles' hands trail to his hips, press down in the small of his back. "Perhaps when we reach the hospital, I could look for a book on how to do this properly."

"Won't be better." The words are slurred into the blanket.

Charles hears them anyway. "I want to help you, not hurt you. I could be doing this wrong."

"You're not."

Charles is smiling, he's sure of it. It's very comfortable just to lie there, with Charles' hand rubbing up and down his back, soothing any residual soreness, but it is starting to get cold, and as unlikely as it is, someone might come in.

He starts to sit up, but Charles presses a hand against his back, holding him down. He turns his head to look at his friend.

There's not much light in the dim truck. Only from the lamp hanging from the ceiling, and that's turned down very low. Charles is bent down low over him, and he can just make out his features, one side of his face and scalp painted gold from the flickering flame. It's a beautiful sight, the hollows and details of one side of his face throwing shadows on the other side. Then Charles does smile and the patterns become even more intricate. Sharp cheekbones, deep eyes reflecting the flame, every feature so very defined and delicate. He's beautiful, so beautiful it's impossible to compare him with the wreck of a boy he had been only three months ago.

_He doesn__'__t remember much of Charles in the last few months, the memories of before he was ill seems vague and indistinct, as thought he__'__d been sickening even then. What he does remember he wishes he didn__'__t. Charles had been bad before. Heartsick and terrified. Bones and skin and hollowed inside out with hunger and fear. But what he remembered after, surely it had been the fever that had made Charles look like that. Because he didn__'__t want to consider that the effort of looking after him through the typhus had cost Charles so much. That Charles had given so much that he__'__d started looking more like a corpse than many of the dead they had seen._

He reaches out and touches Charles' face, and the memories dissolve like ice in a fire. His heart feels as though it has skipped a beat, then makes up for it by beating twice as fast. He can feel it resonating through the floor. Charles turns his face into the touch, eyes slipping closed. He needs a shave; Erik thinks vaguely, the bristles scrape against his palm. Then they slip away and are replaced by warm lips as Charles kisses him.

It's just as well it's so late, and Erik so tired. He wants him, never mind that it's the worst place possible right now, short of doing this in plain sight, he wants him. And if his body had the energy to obey, it would be very hard to resist.

_It__'__s a strange thing, that desire. He__'__s loved Charles for so long, been in love with him for so long, that he__'__s really not sure what to do with this desire. Love was easy. Whatever happened to Charles, it didn__'__t change the fundamentals. His bravery, his kindness, his intelligence and his utter, unbreakable loyalty that no amount of hunger or fear or pain could break._

_Comfort was easy too. The strange intimacy erasing fear._

_He hadn__'__t wanted him like this before, even if his body had been up to doing- whatever it was- and it had been safe, they were so filthy and starved and exhausted it would have been hard to dredge up any feeling other than disgust towards each other__'__s bodies beyond the comfort of touch._

And clearly, Charles too has recovered more than he'd thought, because for once his friend is the one having difficulty controlling himself. He takes hold of Erik's hand and squeezes it, fingers tracing across the inside like a palm reader, then out along his fingers as he leans down and kissed his way down Erik's spine. Definitely a new kind of massage.

"Hmm. Charles." It's at once an encouragement and a warning.

"I know." Charles's lips move against his hips, his chin pressing against the top of his buttocks, then, reluctantly and to Erik's dismay, he moves away and lies down next to him.

Erik turns on his side, and for a while they just look at each other. Lying down, the light sends black bars across Charles' face, shadows from the bed they are lying next to. Erik hopes none of the occupants have chosen this moment to wake up.

Charles doesn't ask him to put his shirt on. Instead he pulls the blankets over themselves and rolls them up in it, practically tying them up together.

Erik doesn't mind at all.

--

They're in Austria, almost in Italy. Charles remembers he once used to dream of traveling. Of having an adventure like those he used to read about.

_And that__'__s what it had seemed to begin with, an adventure. Like something out of a new-fangled comic book. Outsmarting evil Nazis and freeing an innocent woman. As insane as it seems now, Charles doesn__'__t even think it occurred to him to be afraid when they boarded the small ship for France._

He throws the pebble at the empty tin; it bounces off the edge, making it rock, and skids across the road. He tries to remember something about Austria; he must have learnt something about it at school. Erik's turn to throw; the pebble misses entirely. Nothing. If he had ever learnt about it, it's long gone now. He throws the stone a little harder than he should, and it overshoots and hits the truck pulled up on the opposite side of the road. The driver gives him an ugly look from under his elbow before going back to changing the punctured tire.

Erik's stone bounces on the rim, and falls in. He smiles.

"Did you learn about Austria, at school?" Charles says softly, gathering up another handful of loose stones.

Erik drops the stones in his lap, looking down at them. "I- Not much. It was a long time ago."

"Just trying to remember-" Charles waves his hand around. The landscape is breathtaking, the road snakes through a valley between two awe-inspiring mountains, topped with snow. The fields on either side of them are wild and thick with wildflowers, and Charles can hear a stream running in the distance. The truck couldn't have chosen a better place to get a puncture.

"It is beautiful." Erik agrees, and for a moment the game is forgotten as they stare up at the mountains.

Charles isn't used to mountains, he wonders if Erik is. The only things he's seen this big are the buildings in New York, and there's no comparison. He feels dizzy just looking up. The snow looks as though it's part of the clouds overhead. It probably is. Even with the drivers and doctors cursing over the ruined tire, it's probably the most peaceful place Charles has ever been in. It's impossible to imagine anything bad happening here. Even the puncture must have been a fluke.

He wonders if anyone ever thought that about Auschwitz.

It's like swallowing an ice cube, the slow, cold trickling return of fear. Such a quiet place, such a small town in the middle of nowhere. Trees. Marsh. Probably birds once upon a time. Couldn't imagine anything bad happening there. Once upon the time.

Charles feels very tired suddenly, and slumps backwards until he is flat on his back, legs stretched out on the sun-warmed gravel. Erik looks down at him curiously, and lies down beside him, both of them looking up at the sky. One of the mountains is just in Charles' peripheral vision, and the motion of the clouds makes it look as though it's slowly falling. It makes his skin prickle, even though it's just an illusion. He'd done the same with the buildings back in New York.

The clatter of a wrench, a louder curse. Charles would offer to help, but they already had and been refused. Shomron hadn't wanted to waste any time getting the patients out of the truck, so they had nothing to do but wait. Hence the improvised game and current cloud-watching.

_Waiting. Waking up before the kapo, buried under the blanket. Waiting. Roll call, in the snow. Waiting. Lining up for food. Shoving, nudging, trying to get as far forward as possible. Holding his breath until his heart beat in his ears, counting heartbeats, an eternal clock, separating each slice of time, drawing them out or hurrying them on. Waiting._

The clouds curl into odd shapes around the tip of the mountain, Charles' fractured mind draws out something vague about air-currents, gone before he can grasp at it. So much unlearnt. They probably wouldn't let him into high school now, let alone University. He doesn't know if even remembers how to write.

Erik sits up; Charles can hear the dry grass crunching. "What are you thinking about?"

He wishes Erik was the one who could read minds, he doesn't feel up to talking. "School."

"Ah."

Charles sits up on his elbows; Erik is sitting with his arms wrapped around his legs, toying with the pebbles. "They threw me out, you know." His voice is dull, as it always is when talking about this.

Charles sits up. "What did you do?" Stupid question. He knows the answer.

Erik snorts. Since when has he had to do anything?

"I'd be thrown out now, if I went back." Charles clasps his hands in his lap. "Not just because of-" He waves his hand between them- "I've forgotten so much."

Erik nods. "We had a school. In the ghetto. My father taught there." The words sound as though they've been drawn out by barbed wire.

Charles doesn't push. He stays quiet, letting Erik go on if he wants to. He doesn't, and Charles doesn't either; this hurts Erik too much as it is without Charles pushing for more.

Erik doesn't start talking again, picking up a new stone to continue with their game. This one lands neatly, and Charles is sure he saw the can wobble a little to catch the stone.

He can help it, he smiles. "Did you just cheat?"

His voice is teasing, and Erik smiles back, lobbing another stone. This time the can twitches to the left. Charles throws his stone. The can twitches to the right. Missed. Charles shoots Erik a look of mock outrage, and throws another stone. This time the can tips over to avoid it and stones scatter everywhere.

"Careful," Charles murmurs, getting up to right the can.

It's trembling when he touches it. For a moment he thinks it's just the after-effects of whatever Erik's doing to it- maybe he's trying to right it himself. But then, the ground is also shaking, just a little. The stones tapping together. The man changing the wheel stops and looks up. Charles freezes, in the middle of the road on his hands and knees, one hand still clasped around the can. A low rumbling just on the edge of hearing.

"Get out of the way!" He doesn't know which of the doctors shouted it, but the spell is broken and he throws himself backwards, almost knocking right into Erik as the convoy roars past.

It's over in less than a second, or so it feels like. There's barely enough space for the truck to pass, and the slipstream lashes Charles' hood back from his head and throws a mouthful of dust in his face.

He shouldn't have been able to see anything. Not the square-block helmets, not the grey uniforms, not the dark, glittering eyes burning straight through him. He didn't see the soldier's face, just his eyes. Just enough to know what he was, and in that moment, he was sure they knew what _he_ was. A split second, then the track is out of sight, blown away taking Charles' breath with it. Caged monsters, staring through the bars in hatred.

_The utter terror if one so much as looked at you. Vague, distant glances, as though you weren__'__t there. Good. Hide. Duck down. Crawl in the dust in you need to. Don__'__t let them see you. Dead cold eyes. You. Yes. You. Come out and die. Cold knot in your stomach. Hot sweat running down your back. Shaking so hard your bones hurt. Shaking so hard you clench your teeth so they don__'__t make a noise. Shaking so hard your nails dig into your palms. Don__'__t see me._

Erik's hand's clenched on his shoulder but the pain's only just registering. His hand's knotted into Erik's shirt and they're practically on top of each other. He can feel Erik's heart against his back, his breath as short and fast as his own, as thought they've both been winded.

Erik's teeth are starting to press into his shoulder; Charles' eyes finally focus on the real world. Shomron and the others are staring after the truck. The man who'd been in the car with them glances over, and Charles suddenly wonders what they look like. He tries to pull away, and the old fear kicks in full force and their hands lock onto each other again. The doctor obviously doesn't think much of it and beckons them over to the truck. The wheel's been changed, they're ready to go.

They don't check on the patients. They just tie the flaps close and collapse in a corner.

_Roll call. That Kapo was looking at him. He could feel the man__'__s eyes on him. Erik was more asleep than awake, leaning again him, eyes closed despite the pain in his back. Charles risked a look; the man was looking at him, and smiled when he meets Charles__'__ eyes. It was not a nice smile, and it__'__s one he__'__d seen before. Charles snapped his head back to the front, feeling as though he were about to be sick. In three months, Erik would have realized something was wrong. In six months, he__'__d know exactly what was wrong. In three months, the man wouldn__'__t consider him worth looking at, let alone do… whatever he was planning to do to him. In six months, the man would be dead, having been first demoted by his SS overlords then lynched by those he__'__d raped._

_But right then, there was nothing he could do. He couldn__'__t move, or he__'__d be shot, be couldn__'__t even react, or he__'__d attract attention. Attention would get you killed. Standing there feeling blood run down his hands from where the nails had bitten through the skin, not daring look round a second time. Naked and helpless and surrounded by monsters who__'__d kill him in moments if he did anything to stand out from the crowd. Knowing the Kapo was looking at him, and knowing what he was planning. Oh God. He was going to be sick. The roll call was ending, each group being sent off to work. He wasn__'__t in the Kapo__'__s work group, but he knew better than to think it would make a difference. All the man had to do was order him, and he__'__d be killed, one way or another, if he disobeyed. Utterly helpless._

_He didn__'__t know who the poor soul was, or what he did to get noticed, but he would be eternally grateful to his memory. The work group nearest to theirs moved off, and out of the corner of his eyes, he saw one of the SS lazily slide his machine gun off his shoulder and shoot the man dead. He__'__ll never know why, and anyway what did reasons matter here? Probably the SS was just bored. But the Kapo had, for that one, crucial moment, looked away, and in that moment Charles had ducked out of sight as their work group had moved off, and run as fast as he could towards the lavatory barracks._

_He hadn__'__t, in fact, been sick. But that had more to do with not having anything to be sick with than with relief. The day he__'__d spent alone in the foul hut had probably been one of the worst days. Completely alone for the first time he__'__d arrived, terrified the Kapo could come in at any moment, or one of the SS, or anyone who would report him for a mouthful of bread. And alone. Oh God. The fear. He__'__d never had any illusions of how long he__'__d last alone. And how could he possibly find Erik again? Birkenau was huge, people were sent from one workgroup to another for no reason, or, as he has seen, killed for no reason. Erik had no idea where he was, he wouldn__'__t know where to look either._

_He remembered a funeral, when he was very young. A friend of his father's. He had gotten lost in the overgrown graveyard, far away from the grownups. His parents hadn__'__t known where he was; he didn__'__t know where they were. It was that small child__'__s fear that clung to him in that hut, that fear multiplied by a thousand and knotted around his neck until he could barely breathe. And only vanishing when Erik had walked through the door. He__'__d almost fainted with relief._

Erik has relaxed a little, he's still trembling in short, sharp jerks that means his muscles are staring to cramp, but he'd trying to breathe evenly and his eyes are closed, fighting to regain control of himself.

The truck starts with a roar, making them both jump. Charles' heart, which had started to slow its frantic fluttering, starts beating against the bars of his chest like a maddened bird. Erik grabs hold of his arm.

Erik exhales very slowly, and his fingers loosen. He brings the hand up to his face and rubs it as though trying to wipe away the fear.

"It was just a convoy." Charles barely realises he's talking until the words are out of his mouth. "They've lost the war; they're probably just bringing them back from whatever posting they were at. They were just going back. They were-"

Erik covers his mouth with his hand, and Charles is grateful. He doesn't know what he's saying. He tries to swallow a few times, and then gets up on shaking legs to get a jar of water from the tap. He takes a gulp, and passes it to Erik, who takes it gratefully.

He sits back down, and feels the knot in his stomach loosen a little more when Erik puts his arm around him. Another deep breath. Better.

Charles looks up at the beds, and the patients. Right now it's almost tempting to be like them, to curl up inside yourself until nothing outside exists. He can see why they wouldn't want to leave. "I don't think we're the best people to help them," he says softly. Not if they keep reacting like this.

"What is the best?" Erik looks at him, he's still twitching but his expression is calm. Not frightened, not angry. "Shomron?"

As much as Erik is grateful to the doctor for offering them a way out, he's got good reason to be skeptical. Charles looks away, and Erik gently traces the back of his neck. He trembles again.

_Another time. Another work group. Another kapo. __One they had worked under, who had adopted his own favorite form of execution. Knocking the victim down, placing a wooden bar across their neck, and jumping on it. The snap of the breaking neck. The smell of the earth. The laughter. The rough edge of the wood. Spared by seconds._

"At least we understand." Erik murmurs.


	18. Part Six

This will be the last chapter of Past tense. Thank you to al who have followed it this far, I hope you have found it as rewarding as I have. The story will be continued in the sequel: **_Present Perfect._**

Part Six

They must have been late, because they drove through the night. One of the nurses took over from them after dinner and they pass the last miles dozing in the car they'd started off in. It was a strange night. Charles slept lying across both seats, on top of Erik with his head on his friend's chest. It was a risk, but the doctor in the front seat was asleep, and the driver only had eyes for the road, and if either of them wondered, hopefully they would put it down to exhaustion and the uncomfortable situation.

And it was very uncomfortable, his legs hurt and Erik keeps on twitching, but he was so tired very little could keep him awake right now.

The morning comes as they crest over the last hill, and the sun shines straight into Charles' face. He blinks and grumbles and rubs at it, waking Erik, but everything is black and dazzling white that takes him a while to blink through. The car rattles and his head bumps against Erik's chin. His friend opens his eyes and winces through the glare, the sunlight painting sharp stark streaks across his face and makes the edges of his grimy hair almost glitter.

The edges of the world seem softened in the morning sun, the sky blending into the earth and… sea? Is it the sea? Charles squints but the edge of the world slips behind the slowly growing buildings ahead. Perhaps he slept again, because when the world sets into focus once more they are among the white and dusty buildings and the sun is beating down stiflingly on the car roof. Erik is awake, and leaning against the still closed window, trying to watch the world without having it see him.

The cars rattle to a halt beside the dock, and it is indeed the sea. The car doors open and Charles sits on the seat with his feet on the loose gravel, the morning sun already beating down, Charles pulls the jacket hood over his bare head, sensing sunburn. He yawns. Everything feels too early to be real just yet.

_Standing out in the predawn light, sleeping on his feet A slight doze the drooped his head down and allowed him to claw those few more seconds of rest before Erik jabbed him to warn him it was their turn to be called. Half blinded in the sunlight, trying to look awake as the guard read his number._

A crunch of gravel makes him start and he looks up at Erik, his friends face cutting away the blazing sun. It's so hot for this early. Charles wonders where they are. Italy, probably. The buildings are speckled with shots and shrapnel. The wind brushes his face with the smell of the sea. So tired. Charles takes Erik's hand and is pulled up, wobbling. The hands slips from his to his shoulder, steadying. Some noise along the dock, but this square is quiet. A ship close by, a liner. Charles rubs his eyes.

_The ships at anchor in New York, watching the goods ferried from shore to ship and ship to shore. Far away magical countries that he had only read about._

_The ship to France, a small beaten ship too small for anyone to bother with. Across to a small cove and enough. You're on your own._

"Have you-" Charles coughs, sleep clogs his throat.

"No, never." Erik watches the ship, apprehensive but, yes, there is excitement in there. "We were never able to-" He breaks off too, shoulders hunching slightly.

They smile, nervously. Then it hits them at the same time that this is a country that had been allies with Germany, and they sidle closer together. The damaged building's shutters are closed, no one but their little group are out here, but still, the fear kicks. Charles feels sick with it.

The boat is huge, Erik has never seen a ship larger than a riverboat except in pictures, but this one is something else. Maybe for a sea ship it is small, but Erik feels like an ant beside a tin bucket. He can feel it, just as clearly as the cars, even more since there is so much of it. A different tone though, a humming, lower pitched than that of the car. It deepens and settles in Erik's insides as they mount the gangway inside. A soothing distraction. They cannot bring the cars along, some will stay to drive them back and try to smuggle in more survivors. The nurses carry in those who cannot walk, and he and Erik guide those who can. Their old friend the girl can walk, but nearly steps off the dock, blind and thoughtless. He and Erik stand on either side and guide her up to the little group of cabins reserved for them. Good rooms, bunks and softness everywhere. They don't have time to admire them, but it makes Erik smile a touch. Pleasure at least that this part of the journey at least will be good for them. Large rooms, four bunks each with a bathroom tucked away at the back. They loops straps around them and buckle them in as best and carefully as they can.

It's slow work, patiently guiding, half-carrying and easing the patients into their bed, checking the locks on the doors and the straps on the bunks. They ship will cast off tomorrow morning, but they have to get all the patients in before this evening. The passengers will not want to see them when they board. Erik suppresses the flash of rage; he doesn't allow himself to think about it. Anger shortens his temper, and the last thing he wants is to lose his temper with Charles or, worse, the patients.

The nurses do. When one man they are carrying starts fighting and screaming they drop him and swear. Erik lets them help the women they were guiding and he and Charles kneel down next to the thrashing, terrified man.

_The terrors of being that blind. The utter fear swallowing up everything, even the fever, in the desperate fight to survive. Even when it was now pointless._

They don't touch him, but wait just out of reach of the flailing limbs, also keeping anyone from going near him. The man is frailer than they are, and it isn't a long wait before the man is exhausted, gasping for air, unseeing eyes locked on the ceiling hands clenched in half-fists. Only then do they pick him up. Carefully, an arm under each of his, a hand braced against his back like a parent helping a small child. The weight is almost enough to buckle them both down, but they stagger the last few meters to the cabin and let Shomron take him.

And finally, they have to stop. There are a few more left but the young doctor says they can take care of them. They should rest.

Their cabin is beside those of the patients. It's half the size of the patients, just two bunks. Erik stops at the doorway, and looks around slowly. He'd seen the others, beautiful and near luxurious it seemed, but it hadn't occurred to him they would get the same. Charles exhales slowly, and takes a step inside. He runs a hand over the bedding of the top bunk. Erik follows. The beds are broad enough for them both. Erik wonders if it would be worth daring to take the mattress and bedclothes from the top bunk to the other, piling them up in a nest of long-forgotten luxury. Even the sides of the bed have padding, to keep the sleepers from bruising themselves on the rough seas.

And thick walls. They would be called to attend the patients later, but not for tonight at least. Erik touches Charles' arm just above the wrist. Charles pauses, smiles and Erik just has time to check the door is closed before Charles kisses him. Light as feathers, Erik's eyes closing. Charles fingers hooking in his clothes, mouth brushing from lips to cheek to eyelids to forehead. His coat pulled from his shoulders, bare arms caressed. Erik lifts his face again and kisses back, mouth opening and… mmm. His perception of the world tightens, shutting out the outside world, or anything else beyond the two of them, the here and now. Charles' hands brushing his shoulders, neck and scalp, tongue in his mouth, his clothes catching in Erik's hands. Sliding down from Charles face to his neck. Dry skin with a taste of sweat, the nip of teeth and a gasp from Charles.

"Erik." A sharp hiss.

Erik look up, a smile. "Yes?" The walls are thick, they won't be called until tomorrow. What excuse now?

Another gasp, then a faint chuckle. "I would like to have a wash first."

The weight of 'before what?' is heavy, but Erik doesn't say it. His skin prickles. He nods. "Yes. A... good idea."

Charles kisses him again, a quick, chaste kiss. "Would you like to go first?"

"Are you-"

"Please."

They haven't had a proper wash since they left the hospital. If you could call that a proper wash. The bathrooms here have a shower stall. He strokes Charles' arm once more, and slips through the far door.

The room is blinding white, all tiles and linoleum. A pothole over the sink, a toilet and shower stall crammed into a space smaller than Erik's old closet.

The door closes, and the room seems too white all of a sudden- _laboratory, torture, gas_- alone, Erik's breath comes faster and he braces himself against the shower wall, his head pounds to his heartbeat and he rests it against the tiles until it calms. Cold, control. Control.

He doesn't think when he walks into the shower and turns the tap. He doesn't think. He won't think. It he doesn't think, he won't have to fear what'll come out of that showerhead.

The water is an ice cold jet and Erik realizes he's forgotten to take his clothes off.

_They always made you take your clothes off, before. It saved the Sonderkommando having to peel them off afterwards._

Erik fumbles with the taps and the water warms, his clothes hang like lead weights and he shrugs out of them, the added weight helping as the oversized garments just slide off. He kicks them out and they slop onto the rug.

Erik turns his face to the warm stream, closing his eyes and feeling the pressure drive the dirt from his skin.

_Twice they'd been washed in Auschwitz, both times ice cold jets they couldn't back out of or be beaten bloody. Then driven out naked and soaking wet with their stinking disinfected clothes. It had been during summer or early autumn, or they would have died. He had seen others during winter forces to stand in the snow until frozen._

He turns the hot water up and that memory too is drummed out by the water. Washing at a bucket is good, but nothing to this, relishing the feeling of being properly clean for the first time in longer than he can be bothered to count. His hand encounters a bar of soap and it foams up like hot milk. Slick over his cheeks and chin, the knobbles at the back of his neck, shoulders and ribs and back and hips and legs all the way down. More and he works on his hair. He can feel the grit of dirt and dead skin already matting the short strands, he washes and rinses and washes against until his scalp tingles and his fingers card through easily, then his body again, and again and the steam rises in white clouds and his skin turns red from this wonderful warmth.

Then off, and the clouds billow as Erik exhales. Everything is steamed up and the towel he finds is already damp from the condensation. He runs it over his head first.

_His mother's hands, the rough scratchy towel, rubbing rigorously over his unwilling child's head._

Erik hesitates, lowers the towel, clenches his hands and starts again, chest and arms now. Mechanically and without thought now, just get dry and-

There's someone in the room with him.

Erik starts, drops the towel and stares at what he had thought was solid wall. It is, there's a skylight over it but a door- His questing fingers touch cold mirror.

Erik stops. His reflection is just a shadow in the steamed up mirror, and for a moment he doesn't wipe it away.

_His reflection, one last time in the beautiful mirror they'd sold in the ghetto. His face grown sharp, his hair long and drooping into his eyes- his mother had cut it a week later- that last image of his face, a snapshot, fourteen years old._

He's nineteen now. Erik holds on to that last memory of himself, knowing it's about to be replaced by something completely different. His old face, a good face, as he had been. He'd keep it if he could.

Erik wipes the mirror furiously, get it over with, see himself and accept it, not matter how the last five years had marked him. He only stops when he catches his own eye.

His eyes seem paler than he remembers; the lashes and brows almost colourless when they had been black. His fingers touch the hollow of the socket, down over his cheekbone, the still concave cheek he knows from touch is filling out a little, along his jaw. His first thought is that he looks so old. Eyes overshadowed, chin jutting, lines at his eyes and drooping down the corners of his mouth. The years like water on sand, slowly eroding their passage on his face.

"Erik?"

Charles' voice from outside. Erik barely hears him. His eyes, his face. This is the face Charles always sees when he looks at him. This is the face he has worn through the last five years. This is the face that he touches when he washes. This is his face. His face. Erik tilts his head to one side, following the line of his jawbone- surely it had never been this strong before- around to his ear, then cards fingers through hair gone, as Charles had reported- and almost colourless grey. He looks bleached out and exhausted, but better than he'd feared. Maybe if he'd seen a mirror immediately after being taken to the hospital he would have had a nasty shock, but like this-

Erik runs his fingers through his hair again, even in the damp room it's drying fast, curling around his fingers.

Charles knocks, and Erik starts away from the mirror. "Are you all right?"

Swallow, nod, then "Yes."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door clicks open, two steps then Charles stops with a soft 'oh'. A mirror, of course. It's fogged, but clearing, and Charles can see the outline of his body behind Erik's in the reflection. Erik wipes it again, and it becomes clearer. Charles walks to behind him, and looks at the two boys staring back at them. Boys, young men. If Erik looks different in the glass, it's nothing to Charles' reflection.

Erik drags his eyes away, and slides an arm around Charles' neck, one hand on his head and pulls him into rest on his shoulder. Charles doesn't flinch away, though his tempting. He knows he's bald, he knows it perfectly well.

_Their hair shaved off in Auschwitz, the shock of it, of turning from individuals into endless shaved, scared clones. Realizing, or thinking he realized, what it meant. Running his hands over the stubble, looking desperately at Erik, trying to imprint what his friend looked like now into his mind, so he wouldn't lose him again. They all looked so different._

There had been no mirrors in Auschwitz, which was probably a good thing. Charles can't remember the last time he looked in a mirror, but he knows what he looks like, and it's not this. If asked to imagine himself at eighteen he wouldn't have thought of this. He would have thought… probably of Cain, but with his old face superimposed on his stepbrother's. Strong, capable, an adult. Not this. His bare head makes his face seem smaller, more detailed and sculpted. Lines are drawn sharply, his eyes seem too large, bluer than ever. It's not a bad face, the months in the hospital must have improved it, but it's not his face. Charles can't look at the mirror and see himself in it.

Maybe after a shower. Erik's washed and in comparison Charles feels filthy. He pulls away and Erik smiles, very gently, and touches his face. This is the face Erik knows, the face he sees every day, the face he loves. Erik knows this face better than he does. Charles kisses his fingers. They smile at each other. Charles brushes a wet lock out of Erik's face, it gleams like spun silver, already half dry. Not grey, but silver, silver as metal. Clean, Erik seems to gleam, as though metal had been grafted to his flesh. Pale, fine grained skin resting on a half-recovered body; all hard bones and rounded muscle. The tendons in his neck, the sharp collarbones, the ribs and muscles of his torso. Charles' hand falls and grazes Erik's side, realizing for the first time he friend is quite naked.

"I-" Charles closes his mouth, not knowing what to say.

Erik's hand twitches and Charles steps away, knowing that Erik wants to kiss him and while Charles' blood burns to let him, he'd rather have a wash first.

"I'll just-" He gestures at the shower and Erik nods, then belatedly realizes he's dropped his towel and picks it up, wrapping it quickly around his hips.

Charles backs away, half wishing Erik would go away and half wishing he wouldn't. He strips off quickly, not looking at his friend and hurries into the shower.

Erik hesitates. It's not easy, but right now he wants Charles so much it hurts. His hands ache, his heart aches in a loud, wordless _want_. Not for fear or even love but pure necessity, like air. Now. Always. Charles two feet away but out of reach and out of sight. Two months ago Erik would have just gone to him, and nothing would have been asked, but this is different, and the uncertainty is painful.

_It's the one thing he has left of what went before, than and the numbers on his arm. A simple, wordless, unbearably sweet love for the only person in the world who would understand and accept._

It's dangerous, but right now the danger is outside, deaf and blind to them. For the moment, they are invisible. For the moment, Erik can try and forget fear the only way he knows.

The towel falls to the floor a second time and it's two steps for Erik into the shower. The water is almost a third presence, weight drumming down, Charles turns around and Erik kisses him with no gentleness or care or anything but pure devouring hunger. Charles kisses back, hard enough that Erik would have worried about bruises, if thought had not frozen. Again, again, teeth and tongues and noses clashing as though trying to find some new way of kissing that would bring them closer still, ways unsuited to their human faces.

"Oh, God- Erik-" Charles' lips moved, breath against Erik's soaking lips. Head and mouth moving down blindly along Charles cheek and neck. Violently, desperately. He wanted. His body waking up happily, penis stiffening and pressing against Charles'. Erik smiles, Charles smiles, the water races down their faces, along the old lines, hanging like dew from lashes. There's the edge of embarrassment, and Erik knows Charles is about to start thinking again, considering that they are doing through other eyes. Maybe one day he'll understand it doesn't matter. For the time being, Erik kisses him again, his hand drops down to Charles' back, grasps the skin covering his spine, pulls him closer until they are pressed together head to foot, and panting into each other's mouths.

Sweet, warm, the desperate need melting into a light euphoria that throws a veil over everything. Like the steam has come to cover everything, hiding them from the endless array of threats both outside and inside, somewhere the police can't find them, somewhere the memories won't think to look. As long as they stay together, like this, everything will work, they will be all right. It feels as though his mind is being caressed from inside, and when he opens his eyes to look into Charles' it's like looking into a reflected mirror, endlessly repeated to infinity.

Charles licks his lips, swollen. Erik touches his cheek. Charles fingers are knotted in his hair. "Do you-" They speak at the same time, then look away, embarrassed. It's a relief though, that they both want this and not just doing this to make the other feel better. Although all the proof Erik needs is currently digging into the inside of his thigh.

"I would like-"

"I love you-"

This time Erik doesn't know which of them moves to kiss first, both at the same time, like two halves of the same person.

"I love you." Charles repeats against his lips.

When they stumble out of the shower, it feels as though they are trying to move as one person, one shy, uncertain person with four legs and hands. Stumbling, tripping over the tiles, sharing Erik's damp towel and Charles' fresh one, then making their uncertain way towards the door. Getting through the door is difficult, their bodies half knotted together and not wanting to separate. Erik's legs buckle as they reach the bed and they fall down, Charles' mouth stripes over his cheek, a missed kiss, knees knocking into each other, Charles' penis pressing into his stomach.

"I love you." It's hard to find air for the words with Charles' weight on top of him.

"Kiss me." Charles looks almost drunk, eyes dilated until the iris was nothing but a thin rim of blue surrounding black deep enough to drown in. Erik has only inches to lift his head to kiss Charles again, damp lips slightly puffy against his own, over sensitized ones. Charles leaning down and pressing his head back down to the bed, devouring.

"I-"

"Shh."

It just feels so good, too good. Better than anything. Charles is warm and damp in his arms, slightly slippery. Charles props himself up on his arms. Such a pleasant view of strong chest, broad shoulders, sharp face. Erik grins up at him, half dazed and breathing hard. Charles smiles back a little shyly, shoulders hunching a little. Erik strokes his hip to reassure him, they're naked in bed together, there's no need for modesty. He shifts up on his elbows and cocks his head to one side. Everything's all right, no need to be worried. Charles' smile broadens and he rocks forward, rubbing his body against Erik's. Sparks fly behind Erik's eyes. Oh. He opens his eyes again to stare into Charles', that same sense of staring into endlessly reflecting mirrors.

"I- I want-" Hoarse whisper.

Erik nods, and shifts his hips again. Again. More. Just… more. He feels lightheaded, all the blood pooling between his legs. "Charles." Half begging.

"I want- I love. Oh, I want you-"

Meaningless babbling, but Erik understands, there aren't words for this, but he understands, meaning riding those words and arriving safely to him. He nods. "Yes." Please, anything.

"I don't want to hurt you."

A reference, no matter how oblique. The memory of that Kapo, that rape. Those memories, touching them like a flame to paper. Erik grows cold; the warmth reduced to ice, then shakes it away. That was then, this is now, and this is _Charles. _"You will not hurt me." Expect the sky to fall and the seas to turn to blood before he expects that.

Charles' arms tremble from holding him up, and Erik is smiling, head cocked to one side so his short hair almost touches his shoulders. He is beautiful, and would trust him if Charles told him to walk off a cliff, trust so hard he wouldn't fall. Most people would be lucky to get a moment like this once in their lives, and Charles is terrified of doing something wrong.

He remembers- he knows the mechanics of this, heard it in taunts, seen it with the Kapo but this is Erik, and if Charles hurt him…

"You will not hurt me." Repeat, a whisper as though Erik has read his mind.

He wonders if Erik has any idea- He would. He- Thoughts break off as Erik kisses him impatiently. Now please. His legs part and then it's blind and fumbling, and yes, pain although Erik doesn't make a sound Charles can feel it reverberate between them.

"If I turn over-"

"No, not like that."

Because this is not rape and Charles wants to see his face. It takes some soap and more exploration; a thousand touches Charles intends to rediscover later when his mind is able to think of more than wanting to be inside Erik. Now. And when he gets his wish with Erik's legs wrapped around his waist and them lying face to face again he can't think of anything at all, because it's too much. The world drawing to a needle-tip point where nothing else matters and anything beyond the two of them is a dead blur. Erik's face is an inch from his, their breath hot and rapid against each other's mouths, eyes open. He can feel Erik looking at him, and the half-edge of pain that's even now fading. He can feel-he can- it's…

Erik kisses him and Charles moves back to rest his head of Erik's chest, then back up with a gasp, and Charles can feel what he feels like inside, and Erik can feel what he- endlessly repeated. Forward, inside and thought snaps again, hot and tight and Erik gasps again, and it's pleasure this time flooding both their minds.

Again, again, it's all right, their bodies know what to do even as their minds roil and entwine and shatter. Erik gasps, it might be Charles' name, it might be just air but the word echoes between them anyway. Reflected as their pleasure is reflected over and over until far too soon it's just too much, it crests, and they cry out in each other's minds and the world dissolves into endless panes of white.

It's too good. Charles thinks muzzily. He knows that too much pleasure can turn you soft; make you more susceptible to pain. He wonders if the opposite has happened to them, that they are so used to pain that pleasure takes them utterly off guard. Erik's chest reverberates with a soft laugh, he heard that. Charles doesn't bother to speak it out loud, closing his eyes and resting his cheek against the slick skin. They're both damp with sweat and Charles can feel a sticky patch on his stomach. It doesn't hurt the moment, nothing could. You cannot measure this moment, this is a moment you measure others by. It wouldn't be the same without these proofs of what they've just shared.

He can feel Erik in his mind, a warm fire he curls around like a cat to warm himself. All tenderness and gentle emotions, a mental caress. He can feel himself in Erik's arms, the smoothness of his scalp against his lips.

_You see. _Erik's thoughts are neither in Polish or English, but a language of their own, one they might have spoken in Babel. It doesn't stop them from sounding smug. _I told you it would be all right._

Charles yawns? Let Erik be smug, if he was always right about such things Charles was happy to carry on being wrong.


	19. Author's Note

Author's note and answers to reviews:

Firstly I'm happy to say that Present Perfect has been started, and is posted here:

.net/s/7079666/1/

I will be bringing in elements of X:FC in (because I loved it and Past Tense is, while still AU, not incompatible).

I also would like to apologise for the mess I made of history in Past Tense. I understand that I'm probably the only one who really notices these things, but if it did bother you: I'm sorry, I had only done six months research on the Holocaust, I know I messed up with the Belsen transport and the geography of Birkenau. I am thinking of re-writing it to incorporate more of X:FC (paging Herr Schmitt...) and will try and address these issues. Otherwise, my bad.

I am also glad that some people found this fic helped them understand the Holocaust. It's a hard topic to study, but an extremely important one. After writing this fic I continued to study the subject, and will be starting a Holocaust Studies MA in September, so this story had a pretty deep impact on my life ;)

And I'm very sorry to say I made up absolutely nothing when it came to the treatment of gay people in the Holocaust. Everything I mention comes out of reliable sources (for more information, see the book 'The Men with the Pink Triangle' by Heinz Herge or the documentary film 'Paragraph 175'. Warning: may make you want to smash something). It's a criminally underrepresented facet of the genocide, and is only now really receiving attention. Did the survivors ever get compensation? Don't make me laugh, they were lucky to escape jail.

And a warm welcome to those who came to this pairing via X:FC! I too loved that film and while this story will bring in a lot of comicsverse elements (particularly when it comes to characters) but it will have a lot of stuff from First Class as well, because It Was Awesome and Sebastian Shaw is the kind of character who has to be included everywhere ;)

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy Present Perfect!

Skull Bearer.

P.S.: ZizziHungarian: I'm sorry you thought having people finding hope and love in terrible situations is impossible and cheesy. Confessing your love becomes so much more important _because_ you don't know if you'll live through the next day, and if you don't believe that then well, I'm glad I'm not you.

-SB


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